Behind His Lens(84)

“What? They were there that night?” He leans forward in his chair, intrigued.


“Yup.”

“You never told me,” he frowns, trying to piece together the new information.

I nod, staring into the dark ale, not willing to meet his eye.

“Did you talk to her that night?”

“No, but the moment I saw her on the dance floor I knew I wanted her. I had to have her. And instead of listening to logic and reason, I went for her.” I tip back the beer, drinking half the bottle in one long drag.

“How long has it been since you guys have talked?” he asks with a frown.

“Two weeks.”

He nods slowly, taking a sip of his beer, and then another.

Finally, he leans his head toward me and cocks a brow. “Well, chump, what are you going to do about it?”

I shake my head, “Nothing. Charley has her own shit to work through. I can’t force her to want to be with me.”

“So you knew better than to fall for her and then you did anyway?”

“Looks like it.” I scrub a hand across my overgrown facial hair.

He chuckles regretfully. “Damn, I’ll drink to that.”

…

Charley

I decided to try to work everything out without therapy. It didn’t work for me last time and I already know they’ll want to put me on drugs. We live in the era of ever-present and ever-available uppers and downers, but I don’t want either. I know I can fix myself. I know the root of my problem; I just never thought it was possible to overcome my past until I met Jude.

He taught me how to experience life through my senses, never holding back, never pushing feelings away. He didn’t let me hide; he told me I had to be honest with myself. Hearing him say that was the biggest wakeup call I’ve had in four years.

For the first time since my father’s death, I lay alone in my room letting my mind wander. Will the memories even come? My head rests back on my pillow and my eyes study the white paint chipping above my head. For a little while I think of nothing at all, just white noise. Had I pushed them away for so long that they had disappeared completely?

But, then like a faint echo, I remember my father’s deep laughter. The sound is faint and fades in and out like the reception with a bad antenna.

He was always laughing.

Before I realize my movements, I slip off my bed and pull a large blank canvas from the armoire beside my bed. My bucket of paints tumbles out after it, but I let them spill out onto the ground, not caring about the mess. I grab the colors I need, mixing them on my palette and letting echoed remnants of his laughter push me forward. As I let the memories overtake me, I begin to paint my father as I remembered him.

His image is hazier now, but the important aspects are still there. His strong jaw and angled cheekbones were always so prominent. And then I think of his dark grey eyes, starkly different from mine and my mother’s.

To the untrained eye, his facial features and expensive power suits appeared stern and unyielding. But I knew better. He showered me with love, much to the dismay of my mother. He was everything to me growing up. Every girl has a special love for her father and mine only grew with age. I never confided in my mother, but my father was an excellent listener, even about silly things like friends and drama at school.

He worked late and often took long business trips, especially as I got older, but we talked every day. Even if he got home at midnight, he’d wake me up just to tell me he loved me, but then more often than not, we’d end up staying up late, talking and laughing.

Which is why his suicide blindsided me.

My hand freezes mid stroke. God, I haven’t let myself actually think that word since his death. Suicide. My father killed himself and I saw him do it.

The thin palette slips from my fingers and then my paint brush tumbles through the air after it. Paint scatters across the hardwood floor, splashing my bare feet and my yoga pants, coating the unfinished canvas and the woven rug next to my door. My eyes lose focus as dark rings impinge on my vision. I pinch my eyes closed, trying to find a grip on reality, while simultaneously remembering why I have to let myself slip away from it.

The memories are so hard to process; I’m afraid they’ll finally splinter my soul in two and leave me a hollow shell, even more so than I am now.

Tears stream down my cheeks as I clamor over the art supplies to find the half empty bottle of tequila Naomi left here the night we went to the bar; the night I stripped for Jude.