I was panting, my heartbeat hammering in my ears.

“She’s gone,” I shouted. “Again.”

I dropped to the ground, hugging my legs into my body. I was sobbing and trembling; I felt like I was going to explode through my skin. James was at my side within seconds, kneeling beside me. He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “She’ll come back. She always comes back.”

Chapter 27

Jack moved in after we’d been together for a few months. With him came all of his art supplies: his tiny tubes of oil paint, his palettes, his rolls of canvas, and one of the smaller easels from his studio. We dragged the oxblood sofa aside so he could set up in front of the large frosted-glass window that faced onto the street. It bothered me that the couch was no longer the focal point in the room, but I didn’t say anything to Jack.

When we woke that first morning, I followed him to the living room. Stopping at the coffee table, he retrieved a bud of weed from a glass jar, busting it by hand and sprinkling it into a rolling paper. He placed the joint between his lips, allowing it to dangle there as he stood in front of his easel, tilting his head and heaving great sighs of discontent.

He had been fixated on this particular piece since we met. I gazed at him from my perch across the room. He was wearing jeans but no shirt, and his hands were stained with lemon-yellow paint. Lighting the joint, he took sharp, quick inhales, smoke escaping from his mouth, fanning and lingering in the morning light. The sun reflected off the broken mirror hanging on the wall and I shifted my head to get it out of my eyes.

“Something’s missing,” he said, slapping down the paintbrush and turning away from his easel. “I can’t figure it out.”

I pulled my sweatshirt over my knees as I hugged them into my chest, grabbing for my bare toes. The red polish had chipped and needed to be redone. I attempted to conceal them so Jack wouldn’t see the imperfection. “How can I help, baby?”

My eyes traced the chaotic yellow lines, speckled with indigo. I never understood his paintings, but that’s the way it was with us. He couldn’t comprehend the underlying meanings of what I wrote—the poems about my childhood, and the complications of my past—but we admired each other’s talents, and supported one another through a mutual understanding that art was vital.

“No, nothing.” Jack smiled at me. “Just be here with me.”

I sat there all day, drinking coffee and reading poetry by Sylvia Plath. Jack and I spoke very little, enjoying the comfortable silence. The room smelled of dope, cigarettes, and turpentine. My eyes focused on his bare back, pale and smooth, watching as his muscles tensed and relaxed with each stroke of the brush.

Soon it was afternoon, and Jack poured up two glasses of whiskey. He passed me a tumbler and clinked his against mine.