“You haven’t asked me if I’m lying,” she said.
He shrugged. “Because I already know you’re not.”
“The drawing thing,” she said, “it’s not a ruse. I’m really going to draw you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know, I believe you.”
“But you said I seemed different.”
“Yes, and you are. You sound different.”
She grimaced. “That would be the racing thoughts, probably.”
“Take your pills, then. If that’s what you want.”
She spread her fingers over his chest, possessing him.
“I don’t want to,” she confessed. “I can’t go back, not anymore.” You don’t just unburn, she thought desperately, and in answer, Aldo smoothed a cool hand over hers, tracing the shapes of her fingers.
Her nose slid under his chin, grateful, as her lips brushed the motion of his swallow.
“Go back to what?” he asked.
The question smelled like him. His fingers were toying with her spine, skipping over her vertebrae like the motion of his formulas. What would they do, she thought, when they were put to work solving her?
She shivered, breath quickening, and his touch at her back rested where cashmere met skin, expectant.
“You can’t fix me,” she whispered to him, her mouth tracing his neck. Do you understand, do you know what you hold in your hands, do you know how readily it breaks?
“I don’t see anything to fix,” he said.
She dug her nails into his chest, a little violence to combat her own softness, to levy the threats of her insecurity, and he had her in his arms in less than an instant, well before she could refuse, before she could even think to do it herself. She wrapped herself around him, raggedly compliant, and her fingers parsed through his hair with her lips on his scars, his hand curled around the back of her neck. You and me, thudded her pulse, You and me, and his answered, Yes, yes, yes, and she could feel it slither through her limbs. You and me together, Yes I know, I feel it too. Lean in and whisper it back to me; Come close and tell me again.
His mouth was warm against her throat, breath soft beside her jaw, and the sigh that left her lips escaped without permission, receding into hunger so powerful she wondered how she had failed to satisfy it before. This wasn’t the answer, she thought desperately, and while her pulse said: You and me, her mind reminded her: This moment will always taste of filth, it will smell of dust, until you cleanse your palette.
She slithered away in a rapid moment, rising to her feet and picking up her sketchbook, her pencils, throwing them in her bag and heading for the door. He sat up but didn’t move, didn’t follow, didn’t say a word. Her hands were shaking, and she darted out his door, into the hallway, you you you in the pace of her feet.
She had already hit the button on the elevator before she suddenly turned around, half-sprinting back.
He opened the door on the first knock, clad now in boxers. “Yes?”
“Aldo, I—”
She looked up at him, helpless.
“Do you want to see them?” she asked, lacking any better offering as she gripped her sketchbook in her unsteady hands, and Aldo slid his gaze over her in silence.
He let a moment stretch between them. “Are you ready to show me?”
Are you ready?, his green eyes had asked, Because if I let you in, I will not let you go.
She exhaled, understanding.
“No,” she said. “No. Not yet.”
“Okay,” he said.
She took a step back.
“Okay,” she agreed, and left.
When she came back, as she inevitably would, he would open the door and she would open her arms, and for the rest of the night there would be no more questions. There would be some hours between those occurrences, though; perhaps a day or so.
First there would be Madeline, home for the holiday, saying: What are you doing with Dad’s painting?, and then there would be the usual between them: Don’t tell Mom.
Jesus, Char, those look identical.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
Did you paint that?
Don’t tell Mom.
Charlotte, what are you doing? Are you in trouble?
No, I’m not, just don’t tell Mom, okay?
I won’t, but Char—Wait a minute. Charlotte, are those my earrings?
Yes, do you want them back?
No, they look better on you.
I know, and then a hug goodbye, a kiss to the top of Carissa’s head.
Then what, after Madeline?
Then the dealer, obviously, who would ask: Is this real?