Painting Sky (46 page)

“It’s no one’s fault, but Peter’s. Keith didn’t ask to be born.” I sighed, tired of being on my feet. My wounds were healing properly, but I’d stayed in bed so long that my body was weak. “He’s a good person. He would have given his life for me, if the situation had been reversed.” I sat on the chair my mother pulled out for me. “He’s not what you see, and you’ll have to trust me, Dad.” I got up, already thinking about finding transportation, when my father answered.

“I’ll take you. We’ll all go. You visit the art show and say your goodbyes, and then we’ll come home and begin the process of transferring you to a college closer to home.”

That wasn’t my plan—not at all. I wasn’t leaving my college. Even if Keith didn’t want me in his house, I’d find another place to rent, or try the student residences. No one was going to dictate my life any longer, especially not that Peter guy. He might have killed something in my life, but it wasn’t my will to live.

I would fight for Keith. I’d promised myself long ago that if he felt for me what I felt for him, I would fight. Now that I knew Ryan was at odds with him because of us, it would make things easier.

We no longer had any other people between us. We just had his stubborn guilt.

We spent the morning in a daze. My mother packed some lunch for us, but no one spoke. I showered quickly and chose a black dress that hugged my body, but which was also warm for the February cold. Matilda and my mother also put dresses on. My father didn’t bother much, but he always dressed nicely, so he wouldn’t seem out of place in an art show. That was, if they went inside. I was conflicted about that. On one hand, it would disclose everything about my relationship with Keith. On the other, if they made a scene, they could ruin something that was very important to the boy I loved.

I tried to approach the subject when there was only an hour left of the drive. “Dad, I want you to promise me something,” I said, playing with the hem of my dress, while my sister placed her hand in mine. “I don’t want you to make a scene in the art gallery, please.”

“Why would I make a scene?” he asked.

I pondered my next words. “Because you’re going to see stuff you won’t like. I want you to control yourself, until we’re alone, after the show. This day is important to him.” I paused, not wanting to give him an ultimatum, but feeling the need to stress the issue. “If you ruin this, Dad, I won’t go home with you… ever.” His eyes shot to mine in the rearview mirror and my mother turned to face me, taking in my serious expression. She always could see past my words. She’d sensed a long time ago that something was going on with Keith and I. Everything that had happened since just confirmed her suspicions. Tonight, they would discover everything.

They both kept quiet, while the car traveled the roads I’d come to know well. I knew the address to the art gallery by heart and gave my father instructions. It was half an hour from our house—or Keith’s house, for the moment. As soon as we approached the building, I saw cars parked on the side of the road. My heart squeezed for him. This would be a good night, even if the outcome wouldn’t be what I was expecting.

As soon as I stepped out of the car, anticipation slammed into me—not only about my parents seeing their daughter splashed across canvases for the world to see, but also about seeing Keith. He might love me and not want to be together, and that would hurt. If he forgot about me and was indifferent, though, it would crush me.

We stepped through the gallery doors and my thoughts left me. My fears were replaced with wonder. The first paintings were of a young girl. I could see that the art was older—the lines weren’t as sure as his were now. The girl always looked happy, and, in some of them, there were more people—probably Ryan and Cody. Here and there, the paintings were just landscapes, but, somehow, he’d managed to make them related to the others.

As I walked, the girl aged. Her smile wasn’t as wide, and her eyes did not sparkle as much. I could see myself in there and knew my parents would, too. The eyes were mine, definitely.

Then came the nude paintings and sketches. Most of them were blurred, and not as defined as the previous artwork. My parents were putting the pieces together and I realized they were beside me when Matilda said, “Holy shit.” She didn’t say it as low as she’d thought, because she had to apologize to a couple next to us.

I turned sideways to take in my father’s face. He was livid. I wasn’t as worried about a fight as I was about him having a heart attack—he wasn’t young anymore, after all. I turned and my thoughts evaded me.

The paintings had definitely been done by sight. The lines were sure of themselves, as if there had been no doubt about how my body worked. In the middle of the room stood a wall separated from the others. On it was a painting featuring the both of us, as the rest of the paintings after that. I could see Keith standing in the far corner, with his back to me. He was in a dark gray suit that I knew would match his eyes perfectly. As if sensing something, he turned, and my world came to a halt.

He was breathtaking. It was as if I had forgotten how good he looked. The light stubble on his face, his mussed hair contrasting with his put-together clothes, and the broken expression he threw me, all did me in.

My feet moved on their own, closer to where he stood. The man at his side went away, and then we stood in front of each other, both lost in our own world. I wanted so badly to jump into his arms, for him to squeeze me tightly, to forget the external injuries, and to take care of the ones that hurt the most.

“What—” He cleared his throat. “What are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t not come.” My reply was weak. I didn’t dare look back at my parents, but Keith’s gaze rested over my shoulder and he winced. I guess my father must have looked as murderous as I feared.

“Please, not here—this is important,” he pleaded and I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t have my father ruin the most beautiful exhibition I’d ever seen. “We’ll talk later,” he said.

“When?” I asked and he averted his eyes. He was trying to come up with an excuse to not talk to me and I wouldn’t let that happen. “After the show,” I answered my own question. “I’ll wait at the house and we’ll talk.” He nodded and shoved his hand in his pocket, retrieving a set of keys. He handed them to me. I had totally forgotten that my parents had left the key behind.

I was turning away, already feeling the loss of his presence, when my eyes rested on the remaining paintings, one of which was on the other side of the middle wall. They were dark, depressing, and made me question everything.

I should’ve come sooner. He needed me, and I’d just sat at home, taking in his silence as indifference. He was hurting as much as, or more than, I was. The drawings on that wall scared me. He had given the tale a depressing ending. My eyes found his and the darkness in the canvasses was in them. I wouldn’t go anywhere without fixing this—without fixing us. 

A
s soon as we were in the car, my parents started shouting. I was so tired. The drive, the nervousness and anticipation of seeing Keith, and, now, after watching our love story unfolding like that, the energy was leaving my body.

“You are coming home with us right now. I’m not going to let you stay and talk to that—that pervert.”

My father’s words snapped me from my slump. “No, I’m not. Take me to his house. I’m going to wait there for him.”

“You’re crazy if you think I’m going to let you be alone with that—” I cut my father off, wanting to avoid further deprecation from him.

“Yes, you are, or I’ll jump from the moving car.” I knew I was being overdramatic, but it was the only way to grasp the essentiality of my feelings. “You don’t seem to realize that I’m eighteen, Dad. I can make my own choices, and I’m choosing Keith. He’s not a pervert. We’re in love with each other.” I whispered the last words, but, in the silence of the car, they were loud.

“In love?” It’s my mother’s turn to speak.

“Yes, in love.”

The silence stretched with no one talking all the way to Keith’s house. Maybe my parents were trying not to dictate, anymore, so that I wouldn’t feel even more inclined to go against them.

As soon as the house came into view, I took in a deep breath. It hadn’t even been a month since I’d been here, but my feelings were overwhelming. I missed this place so much that now, being there, I feared this was really the last time I would step through that door.

My father paused outside the car. “We’ll leave you here to discuss whatever you need with Keith. We’ll stay in a hotel in town. Call us if you need me to pick you up.” He paused, and then continued, “You’re right: you are old enough to make your own choices. We’ll just be here when you need us to pick up the pieces. That’s what parents are for.” He got in the car without any more words or even a hug. My mother was just looking at my father, confused, but she got in the car with a weak smile as a goodbye.

Matilda jumped forward, hugging me by the neck and avoiding the stomach. “It will be okay, you’ll see. He loves you back.” Without waiting for my response, she got into the car, and I went inside.

The smell, this time, just brought back memories. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the boys sitting on the couch, laughing and throwing curses at the TV. As soon as I opened my eyes, the silence and darkness enveloped me. Would this place see such happiness again?

I sat on the couch with my feet under my legs and a blanket over my shoulders, and I waited. Keith arrived two hours later. He came to a stop as soon as he got inside, turning the light on, and turning to me.

“I thought you’d left. You should’ve left.” His first words were harsh, but I had been preparing myself for this fight.

“No, and I’m not leaving again,” I said, thrusting my chin upward.

His face fell, as he shook his head. He came to sit on the couch, as far away from me as possible. “I don’t want you here.”

“Too freaking bad, Keith, because I’m not leaving. You feel guilty over what your father did. Did you pull the trigger? Weren’t you shot, too? I know you almost broke your wrist and finger trying to get free to help me. I know how long you waited for me to be okay before you took care of your own wounds. I saw the art show. I know you love me, too.” I took a deep breath, waiting for the kick to the stomach.

“I—” he started, but the front door crashed open and a fuming Ryan came barreling through the living room.

“You—you, I told you to stay away from her,” he yelled, jumping over the couch.

I got up and put myself between them. As soon as I was within grabbing distance, Ryan seized my wrist, pulling me against him with such force that pain shot though my not-so-healed stomach. Keith saw me wince and jumped to us, removing Ryan’s hand from my wrist with ease, to avoid hurting me more.

“Don’t you dare do that. She’s my sister and she’s coming with me. Don’t pretend you want to protect her,” Ryan spit, while Keith pulled me behind him and stepped back to keep me away from my lunatic brother.

All of a sudden, I was pushed against the wall, just trying to stop the world from spinning around me, and Ryan was punching Keith in the face. The sound of flesh hitting flesh made me wake up from the daze I was in, and I stepped forward, wondering what I could do to stop my brother without getting hurt. Ryan punched Keith again in the face, and then in his stomach, and the stupid boy just stood there, taking a beating without even putting his arms in front of him for protection.

Keith was trying to punish himself for what had happened to me. When he couldn’t beat himself up—at least, physically—he took advantage of my brother’s rage. I was done watching them ruin their friendship and watching our families fall apart.

“Stop,” I yelled, standing in front of Keith. For a moment, I thought Ryan’s arm was coming my way, but Keith put his arms around me and moved me to the side. “You’re not going to hurt him, anymore. I’m done with all of you dictating what I should or shouldn’t feel, and what I can and can’t do. I’m my own person, Ryan. Dad understood it. Why can’t you?”

His humorless laugh made me pause. “Understood?” he screeched. “He was the one who asked me to come get you.”