Beautiful Graves(44)

“Wouldn’t you want to know if you were in his shoes?” I ask.

Joe makes an Are you kidding me? face. The good news is, finally something has penetrated his indifference.

“No. I would be pissed if he told me. If I were in love with someone Dom screwed once under a full moon, and he shoved it in my face, I’d break his nose. Twice. Ignorance is bliss.”

Ignorance is bliss is the Antichrist of knowledge is power, which was what he told me the night we were together. Joe obviously did a one-eighty in the time we were apart.

Hearing him say that is pure agony. Not only because it highlights how deeply Dom cares about me, but also because it reminds me that Joe feels nothing toward me anymore.

“This is morally dicey.” I fold my arms over my chest.

“Everything about this situation is morally fucked. I know it, you know it. Let’s just keep our distance and pretend like Spain never happened,” he says bitterly. “I still need to wrap my head around this. Promise you won’t say anything.”

My back is against the wall. I can tell Joe wants to protect his brother. I want that too. But the lie sits heavy on my chest.

Joe’s eyes scan me, never leaving my face, begging for confirmation.

I cave in and nod. This is the least I can do. “All right. Yeah. I promise.”

He leans forward and presses his cold lips against my forehead. I close my eyes. “Thank you,” he breathes.

Before I can answer, Joe thunders toward the door, pushes it open, and disappears, leaving me in a cloud of cigarette smoke.

For the first time in six years, my heart cracks open.

And all the tar-like, gooey grief pours out.





FOURTEEN


Christmas Day comes and goes without a hitch. Joe and I perfect the art of ignoring one another yet glaring at each other throughout. We’ve come up with a few looks so far. The This is so crazy, right? look, as well as the What did we ever do to deserve this? glare. When he gives me the I know he is not the one; I can see it on your face glance, I am almost tempted to repay him with a By the way, your brother is great in bed stare.

I’m surprised no one mentions how much we glare at each other. Neither of us is making an effort to conceal what’s happening. And when Gemma asks if Joe and I can help tidy up the kitchen together while everyone else is on dining room duty, I wash the dishes and he dries them, and all we do is whisper-shout.

“You’re being obvious,” I hiss at him.

“That’s not the greatest sin to commit. I could be mean, bitter, short tempered . . .”

“I hate that this is happening,” I groan, handing him a dripping plate.

“You know.” He runs a towel over it. “Strangely enough, I hated it more when this wasn’t happening.”

Does this mean he is glad to see me? That he still cares? I daren’t ask. It’s an unfair question to ask him, and one of devastating consequences to me.

The next morning, Dom and I pack our bags, say our goodbyes, and leave. During the ride home, I think about my conversation with Joe and decide that he is not wrong. Telling Dom what happened between us would achieve nothing but heartache. It is likely Dom wouldn’t end things with me, but he would always know, and it would always haunt him.

He’d imagine us kissing, writhing, groaning, gripping.

When I get back home, the apartment is empty. It’s better that way. I still have to digest Nora and Colt’s conversation about me. I have an urge to tell them that I’m fine. That they can move in together. That she can leave. I’m not lonely at all. But the truth is, all I have is Dom, and even that looks like a big fat question mark right now.

Time stutters throughout the day. Dom has a shift at the hospital, and I find myself pacing my room, back and forth. My thoughts revolve around Joe, but I tell myself it’s natural. It’s just the shock. It’ll wear off. Dom is my reality. He is the man I’m in love with.

I want to prove Joe wrong about me, and I don’t even know why.

Struck by an unexplainable desire to do something with my hands, I take out the fuck-you box Dad sent me and pour its contents onto my comforter. There’s an old camera Mom gave me when I was a preteen and dabbled in amateur photography, and the sketches of the graves I drew. There are also Polaroid pictures of Mom and me in her gallery. Pictures from our Alcatraz tour and eating ice cream in Union Square, crossing the Golden Gate Bridge on our bikes, and riding the back of the cable car. Mom always said it was a travesty that big-city people never saw their home through tourists’ eyes. We loved to do the corny stuff on our free weekends, when Renn and Dad were busy hitting the waves.

I miss her so much I can’t breathe. I collapse on my comforter, next to all the memories of her, and weep. Once my tears start flooding, so do the memories. But in all this pain there is also a seed of hope. I am reminded of who I am, and more importantly—who I can become.

“I’m going to do you proud, Barbie Lawson,” I whisper, jamming my feet into my boots. I run downstairs and out the door in the pouring rain to the nearest hobby shop and slap the door open, a woman possessed. I buy a sketch pad, drawing pencils—I splurge on a thirty-five-piece set, with charcoals and pastels—and a pinboard with some pins. Then I make a beeline back home, brew myself a cup of green tea, like Mom and I used to drink, and for the first time in six years, do something that makes me happy.