Chapter 22
SAGE
Leaving the garage, a sick sensation in my gut twists its way to my chest.
I don’t need to ask you those questions to get my answers. I have his name. Now go and have fun.
I’ve known Saint for a long, long time, and this statement alone should mean nothing to the average person, but for Saint, this was a cryptic message. Driving down the road, I squeeze the steering wheel so hard my knuckles start turning white. The feeling of unease tenses my shoulders. I wouldn’t put it past Saint to show up at the exhibit just to “check on me” as Saxon would say.
Saxon is out of town for the next three days doing God knows what. After learning about his and Saint’s secret activities over the past couple of years, I’m nervous about what he is doing out of town. Plus, he took Finn with him, and everyone knows Finn is the silent friend, but he’s the one you call when you need some sketchy shit done. Frankly, he scares me a bit, and I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Frieda to grow up in the same house with him. With Saxon being gone, Saint is my unofficial, official babysitter, and it’s left me on edge, especially because of what happened three days ago.
“What was up with Saint? I know he’s always been protective of you, but he seemed different just then, don’t you think?” Ophelia asks me as she adds another layer of her lipstick in the mirror. I haven’t told a soul about Saint and me. She’s my best friend, yes, but I can’t take the chance of Saxon finding out through the grapevine.
“Ugh, Sax is out of town, and of course, he assigns Saint to babysit me. You know he takes his bromance with my brother seriously.” She chuckles at my response, nodding a few times in agreement.
“You could say that again. He’s almost worse than Sax at times, with how protective he is. Seems odd, doesn’t it?” She doesn’t let me respond before she continues on. “God, I can’t imagine having Sax as my older brother, then having Saint as well. I would lose my damn mind.” I let out a soft chuckle. If she only knew the truth.
I love my brother—hell, I love Saint too—and I can’t express enough how grateful I am to have both of them care for me in the way they do. Always keeping me safe and watching out for me is everything my father would want, and for that, I thank them. On the other hand, I can’t help feeling like I’m smothered or weighed down by their constant hovering. They’re like two helicopter moms, not willing to let the wheel go enough for me to experience my own life. Being protective of someone you love is normal. Being protective to the point you hinder their ability to live their life to the fullest? Now, that’s not normal.
I’m pulled from my thoughts when Ophelia cranks up her newest favorite band through the Bluetooth speakers. “Chokehold” by Sleep Token blares, and I can’t help the smile she puts on my face as she sings along, gripping and waving her arms as if she’s front row at their concert. Looking at my friend, I envy her carefree personality. She’s always smiling and rarely does she ever show any emotion other than pure happiness. I want to bottle up her energy and carry it with me to use on my worst of days.
“Damn, his voice is like a squeeze to my heart! He sings with so much emotion it gives me chills! Am I right?!” she screams over the song to me, and I give her an agreeing smile. She’s right. The lead singer has the most unique voice I’ve heard in a while, and I can’t help but love their music as much as Ophelia.
We sing along as we continue to our destination, and we arrive more quickly than I expected. I guess having a mini concert on the way helped pass the time. I pull into an open parking spot across the street from where the art studio sits. We both do a quick makeup check before exiting the car and crossing the road to the entrance of the art exhibit. There’s a small line at the door, but after a quick five minutes, we show our tickets to the gentleman and make our way inside.
Immediately, we are greeted by a server who offers us flutes of sparkling white wine that we take without hesitation. The room is full of attendees of all ages. The massive showroom is clean, with white walls displaying numerous pieces of art. The room is dimly lit, but each piece of art has a small light hanging above it, illuminating the piece beautifully. Soft piano music plays off in the distance, setting the mood, and I can’t help but feel so at peace in this moment. Art, like books, is beautiful in the way that it shares emotions we are sometimes too scared to share with our voices. Authors, painters, and photographers experience their pain or happiness through their work, leaving it up to the viewer to interpret the true meaning behind each piece.
“Oh my gosh, this place is—” Ophelia’s cut off by a familiar deep voice that flows like silk from behind us. We turn to see Dante in an all-black suit with a black button up beneath his jacket, but it’s his eyes I can’t help but stare at. I hadn’t noticed in the club the other night, maybe because it was so dark, but his eyes are a deep shade of emerald. They are stunning. My father always said the eyes are the windows to the soul, and at this moment, I can’t help but feel a sense of unease, but I quickly push down the unwanted feelings.
“A bit ostentatious.” He finishes whatever Ophelia was about to say, but I don’t think ostentatious was the word she was looking for.
“No, not at all! I was going to say alluring,” Ophelia says quickly before she takes a sip of her wine.
“Sage, I’m so happy you made it. I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again.” Dante leans in, giving me the smallest kiss on my cheek that makes my cheeks flush. He smells of dark spice and a hint of whiskey—it’s delicious.
“Thank you so much for inviting me. This place is truly stunning. This is my friend, Ophelia. Ophelia, this is Dante Macari.” I turn to Ophelia, who’s staring at Dante like she’s just seen her celebrity crush. Dante reaches for her hand, giving her knuckles a soft kiss before saying, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ophelia. A beautiful name for a beautiful woman.” The shade of red that spreads across her face is definitely not a shade that is in the sixty-four-count box of Crayola crayons. I try to hide my amusement at her sudden stunned state and nudge her arm to get her to come back to Earth.
“Oh, yes. It’s nice to meet you too. Thank you.” Ophelia practically stumbles over her words, making Dante grin as his eyes find mine once again.
“I have to make my rounds, of course, but please, enjoy yourselves. There’s wine, champagne, and food on the back tables. Please, help yourselves. I will come find you in a bit.” Dante brushes his hand down my arm, and he leans closer to me.
“You look absolutely breathtaking, Sage.” His warm breath fans over my earlobe, giving me goosebumps as his cologne, once again, fills my senses. His proximity is all-consuming. He has a presence that envelops you, making you feel as though there’s nobody else around. Like a cloud that’s swooped in and encased me in a shell. It’s unnerving but also comforting in a way. I briefly close my eyes, but the moment my eyelids touch, the image of another face fills my mind. Saint.
As quickly as he appears, he’s gone. When I open my eyes, Dante has already disappeared, leaving me, and an equally stunned Ophelia, left to wipe the drool off our chins.
“Holy. Moly. Cannoli. What the hell was that?” Ophelia whispers. Her choice of words has a squeak of a laugh slipping through my lips.
“What did you just say?” I turn to face my best friend, who is still looking in the direction Dante went.
“Did you not feel that energy he was emanating? And what did he whisper to you?” I pull my lips into my mouth before responding, heat rushing to my face.
“He said I look breathtaking.” The noticeable sigh she responds with is that of a love-struck teenager, fawning over the new attractive, yet mysterious, student in class.
“He’s gorgeous, Sage. Like seriously gorgeous. Like he just stepped out of a Calvin Klein underwear photoshoot gorgeous. Damn, girl. He’s got me all hot and bothered.” She tips back the rest of her wine before she starts fanning herself with her hand as if her core temperature suddenly spiked ten degrees.
I whisper laugh at my friend’s not so discrete reaction to, dare I say, the most attractive man in this building. I interlock our arms before dragging her further into the showroom.
“Come on, let’s go decipher some art, shall we?” We spend the next half hour roaming from piece to piece. Each of us gives our opinions on the paintings and photographs one by one. Ophelia and I share a love for the arts, and there was no doubt she was the one I was bringing to this event.
“I’m going to get some food. Want to come?” Ophelia asks, but I’m drawn to a specific painting displayed further in the corner of the room that has my curiosity heightened.
“You go ahead. I’ll catch up; I want to see something first.” Ophelia nudges my arm before disappearing to the food table that’s been calling her name since entering the building. I have to say, the spread looks delicious. My stomach growls at the thought, but there’s something about this painting that’s drawing me in.
As I approach the painting, I study the model depicted. There’s no color, just black paint showcasing a beautiful female’s profile. She’s shirtless, but she’s turned in a way that nothing is visible but her back. Her long hair cascades down her back while her arms are stretched above her head. Her head is tilted back and is halfway blocked from view by her arm, but there’s something oddly familiar about her. She’s a thin woman. Her skin is dusted lightly with a few freckles here and there, but it’s not until I see her hands that I freeze.
If I could see myself in a mirror right now, I would see all the color drained from my face. Small beads of sweat develop across my forehead, and there’s a slight tremor in my hands as I lift them up in front of me to examine them. The tops of my hands house thick, uneven skin, bumpy and raised, angry and aggressive as they stretch across my fingers one at a time. On my right hand, the scars twist up my arm just a bit higher than my left before they disappear beneath my blazer.
I drop my hands to my sides as I peer up at the painting. It’s me. The girl in the painting before me, who has the same ugly scars, looks as though she’s dancing, her arms up and head back, so carefree as her body bows with her movements. It’s me. The night at the club.
“I see you’ve found my painting?” That same sultry, smooth voice invades my ears as a warm presence emanates from behind me. He’s close. I don’t turn to face him.
“You painted this?” My voice comes out shakier than I wanted it to, shock and disbelief still pulsing through my body.
“I couldn’t get the image of you dancing out of my head, so I put it on paper.” Dante painted me, scars and all. I hadn’t thought he noticed my biggest insecurity in the darkness of the club. It’s beautiful, everything about it. So why am I suddenly angry? No, not angry, self-conscious, as if everyone can see my hands and the ugly scars, I try so hard to hide. The most insecure part of my body is up on the wall in full display for others to see. I quickly scan from my left to my right, seeing if anyone is near me and can put two and two together that the girl in the painting is me. But there’s no one, just Dante standing painfully close to me as I start having the beginnings of a panic attack.
“You painted me? Even my… scars?” My breathing starts picking up, becoming shorter and choppier.
Calm down, Sage. No one knows that’s you. You’re just overthinking. Not everyone in the world thinks scars are hideous. Relax.
“I know I probably should have asked you first, but like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking of you after that night.” I finally turn to look at him. Even the way Dante stands radiates confidence and poise: his hands in his slacks’ pockets as he looks over my head at his painting with his brow furrowed just a bit, as if he’s in deep thought.
“Your beauty is hard to forget, Sage.” Slowly his eyes meet mine, his hand coming up to the side of my face. His touch is gentle, his thumb gently sliding across my cheek as he steps in closer to me.
“But my scars?” I didn’t know what I was asking him, or what to say. All I wanted to know was why he painted my scars as well. Most people wouldn’t think that was a detail that would make their work beautiful, but his response didn’t falter.
“Our scars tell our story—the good, the bad, and the ones we’d rather not show. Whether we have physical scars or mental scars, they play a significant role in who we are or who we’re destined to become. It’s important not to hide from them but to show the struggles we’ve faced even when we’d rather forget.” His words wrap around me and squeeze so tight I start to feel the undeniable sting of tears I’m determined not to shed.
I swallow hard and wipe my hands on my pants before taking a step back. I need fresh air; I need a moment alone. I want to run to the bathroom and wash away the scars that have plagued my hands since the fire, but I can’t move. I’m suddenly too hot, my skin feeling like I’m back in the house. The wall of heat becomes too much, and I’m struggling to breathe through the smoke all over again.
“It’s a beautiful painting… really, it is. But could you—” Before I could finish talking, a familiar voice interrupts me.
“As moving as your speech was, some people’s stories are best left to be told by them. Not forced upon them in a room full of strangers. Sage, let’s go.”