Breakable Read online

  Luckily, with the exception of my inside forearms, and the jagged line that started between my breasts and ended under my right ear, the dress covered the worst of my scars. It had taken three days and twelve different stores to find one that was cut just right. But I did. And it was red – my favorite color.

  So, as the guy back-pedaled, the flirtatious smile dissolving like I’d insulted his mother, I held my chin high and gritted my teeth.

  Tonight I was here to enjoy a measure of success. And no one was going to take that from me.

  Sending up a silent prayer of thanks for Mrs. C. and her initiative in sending my not-quite-finished portfolio to the judges without my knowledge, I walked into the gallery to meet my future.

  I passed the first wall of the exhibition and kept moving. Then I passed the next, and the next. I passed black and whites, pencil sketches, two sculptures and an abstract oil painting taking up an entire panel.

  I passed a landscape artist, a horse-lover and someone who enjoyed creating strange, fantastic silhouettes.

  Everywhere I turned there were new colors and new techniques, and for a second I was transported away from my fear and into this amazing world of people far more talented than me. I wandered aimlessly, taking it all in.

  Then I turned a corner and I was looking at myself.

  I froze. Nailed to the floor. I couldn’t speak or breathe because there was a picture of me on the wall.

  But I didn’t paint it.

  My first thought was that someone was playing a joke on me – that after all these months my tormentors were back, and had somehow infected even this place.

  But then I took in the pictures around the image and I knew.

  Oh, gawd, I knew.

  A handful of people huddled in a group, some pointing at the wall, talking, some nodding, listening. I pushed past them.

  Sure enough, all three panels were familiar, covered in pieces I’d seen before – pictures of light and movement that I’d envied at every step of their development. Mark’s ability to imply the things on his canvases were real always astounded me.

  But the one in the middle? I’d never seen it before. It was nothing short of breathtaking. And it was me.

  On a clear background, I was depicted from the front. In stark, black lines, my face tipped down until my chin almost met my chest. My hair (lush and flowing in a way real life never delivered) fell over my shoulders – over my breasts, because there were no clothes indicated in the stark lines.

  There one of my shoulders peeked through my hair. There my waist slid out of the frame. There my eyes were downcast, but my lips curled into a smile.

  I was gentle, womanly, beautiful in a way I’d always wanted to be.

  I sucked in a shuddering breath, took a step back.

  “Gorgeous!” a female voice breathed to my right. “That’s stunning. How can he do that with nothing but lines?”

  “I don’t know.” The answer left my lips without my permission.

  The girl turned with the hesitant smile of strangers stuck in the same space. She peered out from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses, and a crocheted hat pressing her hair against her cheeks. “Hi, I’m Shelley. Another finalist,” she said nervously, flapping the ID card at her chest and rolling her eyes.

  “Hi, Shelley.”

  Her eyes darted to the picture, then back to me. Her mouth dropped open. “Ohmigosh…is…is that… It’s you! Did you do that?” she gasped. “Because, seriously, I think this is the best thing here. Like, I’m not joking–”

  “No!” I jump to interrupt her because… oh, man. I can see it now. Everyone’s going to think this is my board. Everyone’s going to think this gorgeous piece is my self-portrait. Then when they see my real stuff it will be a disappointment. My stomach sinks to my toes and I wish for my coat to hide my arms.

  Shelley is looking back and forth between me and the picture, frowning. “I would have sworn–”

  “She didn’t paint it. But it is her.”

  His voice came out of nowhere, from right behind me. My hair shivered and I was pretty sure it was his breath. I couldn’t move.

  Shelley glanced at him, then at me. Her lips shifted from confused frown, to smile of delight.

  “Beautiful,” she said. Then waved and was gone, sinking through the small crowd lingering in front of Mark’s work.

  With a sigh, I turned. Then almost jerked back. Mark was right behind me.

  He’d dressed formally for the occasion, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit he looked amazing. The suit framed his flat shoulders and trim waist to perfection. His chest was broad under the glimmering grey shirt and lavender tie. I ached to touch him, caught myself before I swayed into his arms.

  “You’re late,” he said quietly, his eyes twinkling.

  “Yes.” I raised a hand toward the picture. “Mark… this is…”

  The smile slid off his face. “Do you like it?”

  “Like it?!” I squeaked, drawing the eyes of the people around us. I had to clear my throat so I could whisper. “It’s amazing. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged, the light back in his eyes. “I wanted to surprise you. I did it the day after the prom. After… you know. It’s what I wanted to talk to you about that Saturday.” He looked away for a second, chuckling. “But we ended up fighting. Then…then everything else. Anyway, by the time I could have shown you, it was gone. When everything worked out, I figured it would be a nice surprise.”

  I turned to look at the picture again and wanted to weep. It was so beautiful. It made me look beautiful.

  “It’s stunning,” I murmured. “But it isn’t me.”

  “Yes. It is,” he breathed against my skin.

  Mark pressed a kiss to my neck, just below my ear, heedless of the ugly scar that ended less than an inch away.

  Tingling and goose-bumped from neck to wrist, I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. My entire back felt warm because he was there. As his hands snaked around my waist and pulled me closer, it seemed nothing short of thankless for me to insist that he’d done the truth a disservice in painting me so beautifully.

  “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, true concern in his tone.

  I nodded, let myself relax back into him. Let his arms hold me close.

  “This is strange,” I said after a minute. “I didn’t think I’d be here.”

  “But you are,” he said, his deep voice rumbling against my back. “And so’s your painting.”

  Trust Mark to get right to the bottom of what was eating me up inside.

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I tensed.

  His arms squeezed me closer, and I felt him tense, ready to stop me bodily from running, if need be.

  “Stacy–” he started.

  I shook my head. “I don’t think I can.”

  “Of course you can. It’s just a painting.”

  I snorted so loud the woman three feet away jumped. I gave her an apologetic look and returned my attention to his wall, trying to pretend I wasn’t imprisoned by my boyfriend’s arms in public.

  “It isn’t just a painting,” I ground out between gritted teeth. “It’s… it’s the picture of me.”

  “It’s a picture of the old you.”

  “With swearing,” I added.

  Mark chuckled. “C’mon,” he said, releasing me from the hug, but keeping one of my hands firmly grasped in both of his. “I’m going with you.”

  “No, I–”

  “Stacy, you know you’ve got to do it at some point. Might as well be now when there’s only fifty people here, instead of five hundred.”

  He had a point there. But I hadn’t been kidding when I told him I didn’t think I could.

  “Mr. Gray!”

  Mark sighed and turned – not letting go of my hand – as an officious looking man with a sash on over his suit and thin metal glasses balancing on the end of his nose, approached. One of the judges. And he had a couple less formal, but equally arr
ogant men following him.

  Mark looked chagrined as he was introduced to the two men, but I was relieved.

  I’d dragged my feet getting ready tonight, shown up at the last possible minute. A part of me hoped the show would open and I wouldn’t have time to look at my wall. But deep down I knew it wasn’t going to work that way. The whole point of being here tonight was to answer questions about my work – first for the judges, then for members of the public and art professors from many of the best art schools in the country.

  Even the thought twisted my stomach.

  “…very interested in your talent, Mr. Gray. I believe our curriculum could benefit your work immensely. Have you accepted a scholarship proposal yet?”

  Mark flushed, and shook his head.

  I’d known this would happen. I fully expected Mark to win the scholarship tonight. But even if he didn’t, I had no doubt he’d leave the gallery with several offers.

  This moment was particularly sweet. Mark’s dad was livid that Mark had entered the competition against his wishes. But when he realized how prestigious the competition was, he’d agreed to give Mark one chance: Mark came home with a full-ride scholarship, or he gave up art school dreams and followed his father’s footsteps and became an engineer.

  As he became more and more engrossed in the conversation with the men – professors from a prestigious school, I gathered – I slid my hand from his grip, then inched back.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  At first I planned to just stand back and enjoy watching Mark finally find his success. But as the conversation turned to nuances of Mark’s technique that I was already familiar with, my eyes wandered to some of the other walls surrounding us.

  I moved deeper into the gallery, following the feast of art that surrounded me on every side.

  I think I knew what I was doing. I think a part of me had always preferred to face this particular demon alone.

  I wasn’t consciously anticipating the moment as I examined the brushstrokes on that painting, or how this artist used color to create a sense of light. In fact, when the moment came, it was shocking. Yet, somehow, not.

  I’d just enjoyed a surrealist piece from a girl from Nebraska (her near-photographic cows had lamps instead of heads) and stepped around her wall to see what else was on offer, when I drew up short.

  Crazy Stacy Loves Dick

  The words stole my breath – and not in the good way. In fact, I think if there’d been another human being present, I might have fled.

  But instead, I forced my feet to step closer. Forced my lungs to inflate. Forced my eyes to remain open. Forced my heart down, out of my throat.

  I’d reached the back wall of the gallery. There, in all its perfectly illuminated glory, was my story. Every face. Every stroke. Every moment of humiliation.

  It was a wall covered with my shame. It made me ill.

  Luckily, each artist’s wall had a bench seat squatting a few feet away. Since no one else was around, I took advantage of not needing to use my legs, and dropped onto the wooden slats. Making sure I didn’t miss it was an excuse to take my eyes off the wall. Then I had to set my lanyard on the seat next to me so the ID card wouldn’t flap around and irritate me. My skirt needed to be arranged to ensure the scars on my thighs weren’t going to peek out. There was a piece of lint on my shoe…

  I found I didn’t want to take my eyes off my hands.

  Knowing I was being ridiculous, I lifted my head, but my eyes skittered around the edges of my wall, avoiding the real impact of what was there.

  This was the moment. This was where I was supposed to face my fear with courage; stare down the demons of my past and realize they had no power. If it were a movie, I might cry, but I’d walk away with my head held high and never look back.

  Right?

  But courage failed me. Fear set my hands shaking and twisted my gut into knots.

  There were no tears, thank God, but my breath came in short pants. My hands twisted in my lap. And the thought of looking at that picture again made adrenalin surge until my heart raced so fast I was afraid it might beat out of my chest.

  What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I be the kick-ass heroine, like in books? Or the strong, noble star of a movie?

  Because it hurts.

  Something inside me broke open. I gripped the edge of the seat, swaying. My scars sung as every muscle in my body went rigid, because this wasn’t just a story. This was my life.

  That’s the part they never tell you in the movies. That’s the part the books pretend doesn’t happen.

  Sure, I made it to New York. And I have a wonderful, glorious, boyfriend who I love. I’m even pretty sure we’re going to get married one day. And none of that would have happened without my story. So I can’t go back. I can’t wish it away.

  But it still hurt. Every stinking day.

  Even if I walked out of that room, right at that moment, and never looked back…it would still ache inside when I thought of that picture, or worse, had to look at it.

  Even if Mark loved me for the rest of his days, and never so much as blinked in the direction of another woman, there’d still be pain in our past.

  And being with him is wonderful, but Older Me was right about one thing: Mark isn’t perfect. He’s still working through stuff with his dad. Mark’s been paralyzed by the idea of resisting his father before – and with good reason. We’re going to face that again. Together, hopefully. But still…

  Mark isn’t free yet, and I’m not unscathed. I have scars – inside and out – that will never leave me. The pictures on the wall in front of me were just images put together, mostly by my hand. But they represented the weight I would carry for the rest of my life. And tonight it felt almost too heavy to bear.

  My heart jumped. The tingling in my limbs was almost unbearable. I had to decide. Did I face it then? Or did I walk away and hope I could work through it later?

  My fingers tightened on the bench, whether to hold me still, or push me up and away, I wasn’t sure. But then quiet footsteps sounded on my left and I froze.

  A low, quiet whistle rose then fell. A gruff baritone murmured, “Finally! I’ve been looking for this one.”

  Grateful for the excuse to look at something other than the wall, I turned. Then my mouth dropped open.

  The man standing a few feet to my right, staring at my wall, was almost a caricature. He was wearing brown leather short-top boots, with thick socks that bunch halfway up his calf. And a kilt. An actual, tweed, wool kilt with one of those man-purses hanging at the front. He’d paired it with a formal black jacket, white shirt, a matching sash that dropped to mid-thigh, and a floppy hat that reminded me of someone trying to look like a French painter.

  He looked ridiculous. And somehow…right.

  He glanced at me with a wry smile, then did a double take and turned, frowning. “Have we met?” he asked.

  “Um. No.”

  “Are you sure? You look very familiar.”

  “Uh, yes, I’m sure.” I think I’d remember. But then he looked me up and down, examining me and it creeped me out. “Look, mister–”

  He snapped his fingers. “You’re the girl in the painting! Mark Gray’s portfolio!”

  Stunned, I nodded.

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “That piece is remarkable. The movement! When I saw it I wished I could meet the young lady to see how it felt to be the inspiration behind such an erotic work. I never imagined – but you must be his girlfriend, then?”

  “Uh, yes…”

  “Wonderful! Tell me the story! Did he have you sit for it? Did you know it would be so…suggestive?”

  I swallowed, feeling violated and relieved, and inadequate, all at the same time. “I didn’t know he’d painted it, actually. He didn’t tell me. It was a surprise.” When he looked surprised, and not in the good way, I wanted to fall between the slats of the bench and disappear. “It’s complicated.” I murmured.

  “Ah, of course. The good stories always a
re, aren’t they?” He rolled his eyes, then turned back to my wall to fix his piercing gaze on that instead. My moment of relief quickly became gut-wrenching fear. “Now, this one, I’d love to hear the real story behind this one,” he said, flipping a finger toward my wall.

  I swallowed. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Have you heard about it?”

  And then I realized he didn’t know who I was. My exhibitor’s pass lay face down on the bench on my other side. He thought I was there as Mark’s girlfriend.

  The relief turned my knees to water. I was glad to be sitting down. “Uh…no,” I croaked. “There’s a story?”

  He flapped his hand at me without taking his eyes off my wall. “Well, I’m sure the story we hear isn’t even close to the truth of it. But apparently the artist was…shall we say, unpopular.” He gave me a pointed glance from the side. “Those awful words were actually painted by someone else, in an attempt to sabotage her chances at getting here.”

  “Wow,” I said.

  He nodded. “Instead of painting over it, or starting again, the artist used the saboteur’s contribution.” He shook his head. “Inspired.”

  “Really?” It fell out of my mouth in shock, but he didn’t notice.

  “Really.” He stepped closer to my wall and pointed. I was forced to turn otherwise it would be too obvious. So I stopped breathing and tore my gaze from him to the painting he pointed at.

  Finn.

  “…See how she’s used red and purple here? It looks positively sinister. She could have done his whole face that way, to denote a truly evil person. But she hasn’t. She’s used the implication sparingly. On the mouth.” He turned, beaming, satisfied. “She’s implying that the individual’s words are dark, rather than his heart.”

  I wouldn’t go that far, but I wasn’t supposed to know that, so I nodded. It was gratifying that he’d at least read the right impressions about Finn. For a moment I wished Finn were there to hear it. That urge passed quickly.

  “…and so two-dimensional! It’s as if she doesn’t know this man at all.”