“It’s beautiful,” I said, my throat seizing. And it was, the bright blue and white electrifying around the small figure. The little me.
Keith was smiling as he looked at the painting. “I’m going to do one for everyone. A family of origin series. Hopefully, the other ones live up.” He wrapped an arm around me as we stared at the painting, my feet floating above the floor. “You know, just because your parents don’t have feelings, that doesn’t mean you can’t.”
“I feel things,” I said quietly, still staring at the painting.
“I mean for another living, breathing person,” Keith said. “You can let yourself do that. There’s still time to be whoever you want to be.”
My throat had felt too tight to object. Keith was the only person who’d ever seen my perfection for what it was: a locked and lonely box. He was the only one who ever called me out on anything.
It was dangerously easy to get swept up in Keith’s huge, wild heart, even when you were just his friend. Poor Alice had never stood a chance. But that hadn’t stopped me from judging her, had it? Love, of all trivial things, I’d thought. All those times I’d told Alice to grow up and get over Keith, to stop being such a drama queen. Yes, I’d been trying to help, but in retrospect it seemed so callous. What had I known about anything back then? What did I know now?
“Still working yourself to death for the man, huh?” When I turned, Finch was standing at my side, eyeing me pointedly. “Because you’ve seemed awfully busy.”
He was bound to say something. Finch’s entire artistic career was built on provocation. The key was to ignore him. Narcissists tire easily.
“Stephanie, can you come here for a second?” Jonathan called, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.
“If you’ll excuse me. Jonathan needs me,” I said to Finch as I slid past him into the living room.
“It’s just a waste, that’s all,” Finch called after me. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
I did not turn back around.
“Hello, Stephanie? Over here, please. Now.” Jonathan waved me over.
“You were going to show me the fireplace, right?” I called out, hoping it might remind him to stay calm. Freaking out about Finch being there was obviously not going to help anything. “I won’t complain the rest of the weekend if you get me in front of a fireplace.”
“Right.” Jonathan put a hand on my arm. “Somehow I doubt you will stop complaining, but there are actually four fireplaces. You and Maeve even have one in your room, which also has a view of the Hudson and the incredible sunset. You’ll see tomorrow. Anyway, it’s the very best room in the house, so naturally I gave it to the two of you.”
“What’s this about a fireplace?” Maeve asked as she joined us.
“Hey now,” Finch said, slithering over with alarming speed. “Shouldn’t we be drawing straws for the best room? Unless maybe you ladies want to share.”
“We’re good, thanks,” Maeve said, cheerfully oblivious.
Maeve somehow gave everyone the benefit of the doubt, despite all she’d been through. It was one of the many reasons I worried about Bates. Jonathan had said he was a “solid guy,” but Jonathan didn’t always have the best taste in men. And I mean, Bates? But Maeve was utterly smitten. She claimed it was because Bates was kind and funny, and he’d been nice enough when I met him. But he was also very good-looking and very rich, and Maeve got mesmerized by sparkly surfaces. I blamed her awful family. Maeve had cut them out of her life, but they’d still left their mark.
“Finch is just playing. We’ll take whatever room you’ve got,” Keith said, slapping Jonathan on the back before heading to the far side of the living room. It only took him opening a couple cabinets to find the bar. “Ah, here it is. Nice setup, Jonathan.”
“Solid call, Keith.” Finch plopped himself down on one of the red leather couches. “After that drive, I could use a fucking cocktail.”
Drinks. Exactly the way to kick off any intervention. Maeve and I exchanged a look as she dutifully headed over to where Keith was crouched. I watched her try to distract him from the alcohol, tilting her head to the side and smiling sweetly. But Keith was fixated. From far away he looked like such shit, too. None of us knew exactly what he was using. It had started with pot and then Xanax and Ativan. At some point he’d moved on to Oxy or Percocet or something. God only knew the extent of it these days. Forget Jonathan’s dad and the loan and the gallery, Keith might be dead soon if we didn’t get him into rehab.