But I didn’t cling to that nothingness for the same reason that I didn’t drink coffee or alcohol. Because it was easy. Mind-altering. A coping mechanism.
Until Gage, of course.
Then there was no wake-up time.
There was only us.
And my mattress didn’t need to grow arms when I had scarred ones around me. And my mind didn’t need roots since it belonged to Gage.
And he was gone.
I’d expected him to come back. To realize that walking away wasn’t an option when we were so tangled in each other.
But he didn’t come back.
And I didn’t get out of bed.
Then Monday came. And my alarm sounded.
I hadn’t moved in twenty-four hours.
I didn’t want to move for twenty-four years if that meant I wouldn’t be moving toward Gage. Or that my body wouldn’t be aching from his touch. Already that ache was disappearing. It was hard to tell though, through the repeated slicing of my heart with every breath I took.
It was tempting. But I didn’t do it.
I went to work.
I smiled at people.
I did my job.
Then I went home.
And I saw the half-painted image of Gage at my window. It was easily my best yet.
“Paint me like one of your French girls,” he purred with an accent.
I burst out laughing as he laid a gentle kiss on my nose, as if he sensed that I was nervous.
Beyond nervous.
I’d never painted someone living before.
Every single face in my studio—or broom closet—was painted by memory. Since a lot of them were David, there wasn’t much choice but to paint them from memory.
And painting was so painful, so private to me, that doing it front of Gage—doing it of Gage—was being naked in a way I’d never been.
He gripped my face, searching my eyes. “Know you’re scared of this. Just means you’re doin’ something right.”
And then he kissed me again.
Not on my nose, or tender.
He snatched away all my uneasiness with the kiss, and when he was done, I was pretty sure I could conquer the world.
“Sit,” I commanded, nodding to the chair by the window.
He grinned wickedly. “I like it when you’re bossy, Will. Save some of that for later.”
My stomach dipped at the prospect. Gage was in charge in the bedroom. And not in a way that took away my power. In a way that empowered me more than anything else ever had or ever would.
But the thought of having him at my mercy, at playing with that darkness he’d let out in me… I swallowed roughly.
“Paint first, fuck later,” Gage said, voice thick, as if he’d read my mind.
And with what I thought would be great effort, I started. But once my paintbrush started moving, it became a blur. As simple as breathing.
I didn’t notice the time go by.
Gage did.
“You have to sit still,” I snapped, looking from my canvas to my subject as he shifted in the chair.
He gritted his teeth. “How the fuck am I meant to sit still with you standin’ there, looking like an angel ripe for the picking, screwing your nose up in concentration, begging to be fucked?” he growled.
My brush paused and my breathing stuttered. I glanced back down at my canvas. “Well, considering you’re a self-professed badass who can do anything and everything, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
There was a heavy silence after his surly grunt.
And then when I thought he was settled again, he moved. The brush was out of my hand and I was over his shoulder before I could properly understand what happened.
A sting erupted on my ass after a loud slap.
“Fuck now, paint later,” he decided.
It was only when I felt a sharp pain in my palm that I realized I was on my knees, ripping at the canvas with my bare hands with such vigor that I’d stabbed myself with the wooden backing of the canvas.
I looked down at the blood, disinterested in it. The pain was little more than nothing. I pressed against the small shard of wood sticking out of my palm with detachment. The pain intensified as it ripped farther into my skin.
I toyed with the idea of pressing harder. Ripping, pulling, tearing at my skin as I did with the canvas. It was tempting.
But then I pulled it out, pushed to my feet, washed out the wound, poured disinfectant on it, and bandaged it correctly. It was funny how easily the shackles of my normal life fastened around my body now that my heart was dead.
I carried on like that for a week. A zombie of my former self. No, I was my former former self. Before Gage. It just felt like a zombie because I knew what it was like to be alive.
If Jen noticed the fact that I was precisely on time for work every single morning, she didn’t say anything, just smiled and handed me a cup of tea, talking about stories, the weather, nothing. It was a kindness, not probing me or my broken heart. Especially since it was already being probed with knives from breathing.