Still, it feels nice to be held, so I count to five hundred…then slowly I pull away, lowering my face to school my expression. “Thanks. I’m okay now.” Lifting my chin, I give him an “I’m fine and doing well” smile.
“Liza—”
I put two fingers over his mouth, not wanting to hear him say my name or give me any more lies. I can’t tell who they’re supposed to make feel better. “It’s okay.” Because it really is okay if he doesn’t want to have sex with me for some reason.
Maybe Tolyan’s right. He warned me I was making a huge mistake at the hospital, wanting me to go with him to L.A.
This isn’t what I meant when I said I could make you disappear so you can live whatever life you want, Lizochka.
He doesn’t understand freedom doesn’t mean much if I’m going to be alone, cut off from everyone I care about.
“You know, you made me that nice studio, and I haven’t had a chance to use it. I should while the light’s still good,” I say with another smile. I cringe inwardly, aware I didn’t calibrate my smile correctly. It’s too bright, and when that happens, people don’t believe you.
Not too bright. Not too glum. One must smile with warmth, poise and polish, so as not appear to be trying or overfamiliar or invite such sentiment from others.
I just failed, according to that.
I go down to the studio. The vodka and the empty glass are still waiting for me. The easels hold blank canvases of different sizes. I pour myself another drink and walk up to my portrait. My nose’s so close to the paint, I feel like I can still smell the turpentine.
“You look sad,” I say to the portrait. Then I take a few steps back. “I don’t want to be sad.”
The younger me in the picture merely look
s out at the world, her gaze not meeting mine.
I clench my hands. “I’m not going to be sad.”
Only the waves outside answer.
“And I’m not going to waste my time on the island, you hear?”
I pick up my tools—paints, brushes, thinner and a palette. I select the smallest canvas because I want to finish the painting before my time here is up.
My first touch of the brush to canvas is scary…even though it’s full of potential. The first brush stroke is a commitment. I focus on the potential and possibilities and keep going. And it does get easier as more colors cover the whiteness, filling blankness with my art.
I’m not creating anything concrete. I’m following what’s in my heart, just the emotions flowing through me.
More colors splatter—bright blue, snowy white, dingy yellow and jet black. I’m not going for something abstract, but even as I add more paint, I’m not exactly certain what I am going for yet. All I’m aware of is that it’s something that’s been in my heart for a long, long time—some unfulfilled yearning…maybe something more fanciful…
Suddenly, I’m centered, and I feel like there’s golden light pouring down over me, giving me peace and strength. My brush moves faster on the canvas.
I know exactly what I’m going to paint.
Chapter Eighteen
Dominic
It hurt to see Elizabeth suffer, having a mini-breakdown over hearing the name Andy. It cut deeply when she pulled away, rejecting the comfort I was willing to give her.
She doesn’t have to be so strong or try to stand alone. But I didn’t know what to say to make it right. When we were in Hawaii, she drank, then kissed me, and we ended up in bed. Even if there was alcohol and a kiss, we wouldn’t have ended up in bed this time, and maybe she could sense that, and that’s why she withdrew.
But not having sex with her doesn’t mean I’m not going to fix the problem. I call Antoine. He and I didn’t part well over my decision to bring her to the island, but I know I can count on him.
“Yes, Dominic?” he says, his voice cool and unreadable.
“Can you find anybody named Andy or some variation of that name in Elizabeth’s social circle?”
“Why?”