“I know.”
She looks up at me finally, our eyes locking together. “I’m sorry for this morning,” she says. “I know you were trying.”
“You pushed me. You wanted me to lose control.”
“Ever since I found out about Hero—about you . . . I feel numb. Different. Everything is turned inside out.”
As she’s talking, her eyes grow warm and alive again. The eyes she used to stare at me with in the office, like she might love me in some weird way. Eyes I’ve seen here and there over the past few months, but not since the night she learned the truth.
I can’t help myself. She’s a magnetic force field, and I’m a man without a chance. I lower my head, hungry to gobble up that bottom lip of hers that’s quivering, begging for me. Doing what I do, being who I am, I’m never unprepared. But that’s exactly what I am when she shoves me away.
“I can’t,” she says, and I’m left open-mouthed with empty arms. “This isn’t what we are. I don’t want you. I don’t love you. And whatever this is, I can’t do it.”
50
My last promise to Cataline was that I’d let her be, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. I’m leaning against a brick wall near her apartment, impatiently waiting until a black town car pulls up. Cataline gets out with a small duffel bag and nothing more.
Norman’s right behind her, watching while she puts the bag at the doorstep of her apartment building. People pass them by, oblivious. The look she gives Norman makes my throat constrict. All I got in the car on the way home from the charity event was a cold shoulder and no explanation.
“I don’t know what to say,” she says to Norman. “It feels wrong to say thank you or I’ll miss you, but that’s what I want to say.”
He nods, and I’m sure the sentimental old man has tears in his eyes. “I want you to know, if you ever need anything, you can come to me.”
They hug, and she kisses him on the cheek. Then he’s gone, and she’s alone. Since he doesn’t take her upstairs, I know he knows I’m here. She approaches the building’s entrance and pushes the button to her apartment with an unsteady finger. She’s biting on her thumbnail when a voice comes through the speaker.
“Yeah?” Cataline just stares. “Hello?”
“Frida?” A silent beat. “It’s me, Cat.”
I realize I’m holding my breath until Frida says, “I . . . I’ll be right down.”
Cataline sighs and closes her eyes, and I have to remind myself why this is right. I want to bolt across the street and take her in my arms, crush her in a hug that reminds her I’m not just a bad memory but a real person who needs her, who no longer knows anything without her.
Frida bursts through the door and almost knocks Cataline over with the force of her hug. They cling to each other like they’re in danger of drowning in their own tears.
“Oh my God,” Frida chokes out. “Where have you been? What happened?”
I justify spying because I need to know what she’ll say. In fact, I wouldn’t care if she went to the police and told them everything. Exposed me as Hero. She deserves that kind of justice.
“You wouldn’t believe any of it,” Cataline says, gripping her friend by the shoulders.
“Was it the Cartel?” Frida asks.
Her answer is immediate. “Yes.”
“I knew it,” Frida says tearfully. “I knew you didn’t run away. I never gave up.”
“It’s over now. It’s over. He saved me.”
“Who?”
“Hero.”
Frida’s mouth falls open. “Hero? Were you afraid?”
“Afraid?” Cataline asks. “Of Hero?”
Frida shakes her head quickly. “One thing at a time. Come upstairs. Tell me everything.”
There’s supposed to be this moment where she feels my eyes on her and pauses to turn around, but she only follows Frida inside. I leave before I’m tempted to listen to the whole fucked-up fairytale.
51
Cataline
3 Years Later.
“I’ve got this, Melinda,” I say. “Go home to your boys.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“I’ll close up tonight.”
She winks at me. “You’re a good boss, Cat. See you Monday.”
“Monday,” I agree.
I lock the door behind her. The sun has just set through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the room is darkening quickly. I flip on two yellow lights, just enough to finish my paperwork. My eyes wander around the gallery. Do you see? I want to cry out. I’ve done it. I’ve done it without any of you. Without your money or your support. I’m speaking to all of them—those who left me with nothing, those who never gave me anything, and those who took everything away. It’s my gallery, with my signature on the checks, my sweat in the floorboards, my brushstrokes on the walls. I was there every step, building from nothing. Do you see?
Instead of pride, I feel my usual, inexplicable defeat. My arms are heavy at my sides. This feeling never seems to leave, but it’s been months since it weighed this much. As if on cue, my phone rings. I rub my eyes and return to my desk.
“Hey, babe.” Grant’s voice puts me at ease. “How’s it going?”
“As of today, my exhibit is officially the gallery’s best yet.”
“Wow,” he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re a star.” He smiles because he’s proud and he loves me, fissures and all. He’s patient; he’s sweet. He worships my body when we make love. He is not Calvin. “Coming over for dinner?” he asks.
“Actually, I have some things to wrap up. Can we hang tomorrow?”
“You know, if you lived here, I could see you tonight.”
I nod, familiar with his teasing. “So you keep saying.”
“I know you’ve got a lot on your plate and that moving would be a pain in the ass, but . . . once it’s done, things will get easier. Not just financially.”
“I know, honey. I promise it’s on my mind. Along with a lot of other things.”
“Okay. As long as you’re considering it. Did you lock the gallery door?”
“Yes.”
“I worry about you there by yourself. I don't like that you’re so close to the East Side.”
“I’ll be careful. Love you.”
“You too. Call you in the morning.”
I hang up and stare at the phone for a minute before setting my face in my open palms. I do this most nights without meaning to—take a moment to myself once I’m completely alone. Sometimes to remind myself that I’m doing what I love. Sometimes to think about my parents. Sometimes I wonder about Guy Fowler and why he set the Cartel leaders up knowing Hero would knock them down one by one.
But tonight I don’t think about any of those things. Like most nights, I only think about Calvin. Not Hero, and not my captor. Just Calvin.
I replay the look on his face when I told him I couldn’t do it. Three years later, it’s just as clear. It’s seared into my heart because I’d never seen him look like that before. I’d seen anger, domination, frustration, maybe even remorse in his eyes. But this was something else—pain that came from the depths of a man I never got to meet.
Nobody ever knew my soul like Calvin, even if it was a forced entry. Not before then, not since then. That’s what I’m thinking when I hear a noise and look up. Calvin stands in the doorway, one shoulder against the doorframe as he watches me.
My heart’s in my throat in an instant. Some slivered-off piece of relief floods my system, like part of me was afraid I’d never see him again. I guess that part was wrong.
“Cataline.”
“Calvin?” My elbows are still on the desk, my hands frozen where my forehead had been. “What are you doing here?”
His eyes scan the walls, lingering over my photographs. “I had to see with my own eyes,” he says quietly. “Why now?”
I follow his gaze. The exhibit took me this long to present, but it still threatened to reverse the progress I’ve made the last few years. My hell, plastered in color, black and white, and sepia against eggshell walls. Yet, in being surrounded by photographs taken in the mansion, I’ve also found comfort because they take me back to him.