I’ve done it before. I can do it again. I can fix it so she never, ever finds out.
I should move his painting—On the Ocean at Night, which I purchased through Pearl’s name—from where it’s hanging over my bed.
So what?
I shut my eyes. And for the first time in almost a year, I hear his voice. I almost feel his arm around my shoulders as he says, “You okay, my man?”
And I’m there. In dark woods. I hear the slight catch in his voice as he says, “Every message you preach, turn around and say it back to yourself. Promise?”
By the time Bernard stops at the curb in front of my house, I’ve slipped completely underwater. Everything is moving in slow-motion. The whole world feels slightly dizzy. Quiet. Numb.
I manage a goodbye and climb the stairs. I shut the door behind me. With the door shut…
It’s not good to have the door shut. Sometimes I leave the house…if I need to. I don’t have the energy tonight. I get my phone out of my pocket and text Megan.
Saturday?
Then I head into the kitchen, where I pour myself some Bunnahabhain. I step into the living room and get the remote, turn the fireplace on. I sink into my favorite armchair, down the scotch.
My phone rings. My heart skips some beats, but when I pull it out, it’s only Pearl.
“PL?”
I blink at my glass, at the liquid sloshing slightly. I realize I forgot to say “hello” when I answered.
“PL at your service.” To my ears, my voice sounds flat and dry.
“How’s it going?” Pearl asks. “Are you back at home?”
“I am.”
“So how did it go?”
“It was good.”
“Really? You liked her?”
“I did.”
“Are you sure? You sound…subdued.” I can tell when it clicks for her; she’s not smooth, so she asks again, “Are you back home?”
“I am.”
“What are you doing?”
“Watching the fire.” When she doesn’t reply, I lean my head back, swallowing the last drops of scotch in my glass. “Pearl, did you need something?”
“For some reason, I couldn’t get through to your voice mail. I just wanted to say the kittens have been rescued.”
“Good.” She knows me so well, she can tell just from my voice.
“Hey Luke?”
“Hey, Pearl.”
“Are you okay?” She whispers—so soft that it’s hard for me to hear.
“I’m fine.”
Silence hangs on the line. Somewhere distant, I feel bad for making poor Pearl nervous.
“Are you sure?” Her voice is so soft. So…I don’t know—like a clean sheet. “If you’re not, you can tell me.” Another beat of silence passes. “You’re one of my best friends. Do you want me to come—”
“No. C’mon, PNW! We had drinks with dinner. I’m just tired.” Somehow, I produce a laugh that doesn’t sound completely unlike my real one. “I’m headed to bed, friend. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay.” It’s just a murmur. “Freddy’s out of town, remember? If you want a little company.”
“For sure. But I don’t. I’m all good.” Strike me down. “I’m good.” It’s like standing on a mountainside in metal shoes during a lightning storm. I murmur, “Get some sleep.”
“I will. And you too, okay?”
“Totally.” I move my mouth into a smile so she can hear it in my voice when I say, “Goodnight, Pearl.”
“Goodnight, PL. Sleep well, okay?”
“I so will.” My lips give a little twitch. The “totally” and “so will” are vintage Pearl Myers.
When the call is done, I lie back in the chair and blink up at the vaulted ceiling. I feel weird. Like an astronaut floating in space. I’m floating farther from the ship. It doesn’t matter.
Maybe someone here would help. I text her again: By Saturday, I mean tomorrow night.
Another glass of scotch and I’m okay to lock the front door, go to my room. I wake up at 2:04 AM and find his painting glowing in the moonlight that seeps through my window.
It’s shining like it’s ordained. I love looking at it. I reach up and tear it off the wall. I get a pen out of my nightstand drawer and stab the canvas. Then, with my own hands, rip it to pieces.FourVance
“Oh fuck. Right there. SHIT…that feels good.”
I feel Maya’s chuckle through my lower back and hips—where her thighs are squeezing as she straddles me.
“Mmm, I feel that,” she says. “It’s like…this one knot right…here.” I groan as her fingers dig under my shoulder blade. “Goddamn pony boy.”
“Rat bastard.” My eyelids are fucking heavy. She says something else about pony boy—her nickname for my giant centaur piece that’s got my back all knotted. Then I’m drifting, half asleep as she strokes her nails over my back and sides…then digs oil-slicked hands into my shoulders again.
“You get easy chill bumps. Everywhere my hands go…” She laughs, and I sort of feel it in my dick—but…too tired.
“How was it today with Carolina?”
I crack my eyes open. “She did fine.”