CHAPTER 10
Sybil
I woke the next morning to the unwelcome sound of my doorbell camera. It wasn’t actually morning per se, but near noon.
Bill leapt up at the sound, running down the three floors to the door. His barking filtered up the stairs, but ended soon enough as he resurfaced at my bedside moments later. Bill’s warm breath billowed across my face, and I grimaced, reaching for my phone and pulling up the doorbell app.
I replayed the previous feed, sitting up straight with a groaned, “Noooo.”
Nash had been there, his form appearing on my porch and then leaving. It was hard to tell for sure, but it appeared as though he’d left a paper bag on my doorstep and vanished without a word. Was this some kind of trick?
“Please don’t be a dick pic in a bag,” I whispered.
Now darkly curious, I peeled the warm covers away, the cool air pouring over me. Sliding out like a cold sausage from its packaging, my bare feet hit the floor. Reaching for some sweatpants, I pulled them on before plucking Mr. Beans from the bed and plopping him over my shoulder like a rag doll.
“Come on, Mr. Beans. You need to protect me since Bill won’t.”
Bill let out a series of yips and yowls in protest, as if he understood me.
I descended the antique stairs I loved so much, reaching the door and unlocking it before whisking the paper bag inside. Taking it back toward my kitchen, I set the unassuming bag down on my counter with a plunk and stared at it, pacing with Mr. Beans.
He purred, a low rumble vibrating against my ear. Warm, wet drool dripped, a cold, sticky trail down my neck. “Gross, Mr. Beans.”
Bill sat dutifully beside me, ears perked and eyeing the bag. He licked his chops as though he knew there was food inside.
“Is it food, boy?” He seemed to know better than I.
I set down Mr. Beans on the counter. He stepped toward the bag, rubbing his drool jowls across the edge of it several times.
“What if it’s a glitter bomb?” I asked Bill.
Bill only tilted his head, his animated eyes blinking a few times. He scooted about on his haunches. I could see he was trying hard to sit still and behave, but couldn’t manage it.
I unrolled the crumpled top, a papery whisper filling the air. Peering into the dimness, my brow furrowed, a knot forming between my eyes. All I could see was a plastic food container and a sticky note. No glitter, no dick pic. I reached in and pulled the container out.
The note read, “For Bill,” in fat black Sharpie.
I peered through the plastic, my eyes widening at the sight of a small, frosted cupcake. Confused, I noticed the round, two-toned sticker on top that read, “Nancy’s Puppy Cakes and Confectionery.”
Bill barked, and I looked at him. Drool was gathering around his mouth.
“You want this?” I asked in my very best doggy voice. “I think someone is trying to sweeten you up.”
I popped the top off the container, smelling a carroty scent mixed with a grainy, mealy sweet something. Not your average cupcake smell.
My nose wrinkled.
Bill yipped. I could tell he was losing patience with me.
“Okay, okay, here.” I stopped delaying and peeled back the wrapper on the cupcake. Bringing it to Bill’s nose, he sniffed it a few times, eyes wide. He licked the snaggletooth stuck on his lip before he tentatively wrapped his mouth around it. Once I let go, he inhaled it.
“Bill! You could at least savor it,” I scalded with a laugh.
I grabbed the bag and container from the counter, searching for anything I’d missed.
Nothing.
No pornographic photos or pushy questions—just a cupcake for Bill.
I crumpled the bag and threw it in the trash, but kept the sticky note. I put it on my refrigerator, staring at it and letting my feelings simmer.
Seeing Nash last night was nothing short of terrifying.
I’d finally had the chance to relax into the show, riding the high of the near-immediate sale of Doubt to a hilarious man in the most absurd suit.
One of the floor staff handled the sale, the paperwork changing hands until it reached Cat, who would handle it from there. I was anxious to hear what it sold for.
I’d been managing my anxiety well—until Nash walked in. He had a stunning woman on his arm. She was flawless. Several things happened at once, colliding in my brain:
There was excitement.
There was crushing disappointment.
There was overwhelming fear.
It all resulted in disaster. Nash’s face alone would have been enough to send me into a fit of palpitations, but all of it?
It was awful.
The woman on his arm had to be his girlfriend; she just had to be.
They looked perfect—and, looking back, maybe too perfect, like, family perfect—but I was busy drowning in my black and white thinking and not in the right frame of mind.
All I saw was the perfect woman looking very cozy, and it felt like the world was ending.
An entire year could have passed, lost in my thoughts as I was. Reality was gone, rationality nonexistent, but then Nash made introductions.
She was his sister. Her name was Betty.
It was like being sucked back to the present through a straw. The relief I felt was surprising. I wanted to smile and thank the heavens on the spot. But then I registered how he’d delivered the news:
“Not his date,” he’d said.
It’s pretty clear that when guys in books spoke like that, they meant it. They were laying Easter eggs of well-placed wording, spelling out, “I’m single, and interested—in you.”
My relief was dead on arrival, stuttering to a stop.
My ears began ringing, my palms sweating, my cheeks hot as hell. Betty was talking to me, but I couldn’t follow a word of what she was saying. Thankfully, she seemed to carry a conversation just fine on her own. It was nice, and I wish now I could have enjoyed it.
Every ounce of energy seemed to concentrate on my breathing. I’d internally schooled every receptor in my pathetic little nervous system. All I wanted was for my body to give me this one shot at normalcy.
Like a helpless bubble on a wave, I rode the anxiety. It peaked and crashed, blissfully falling off sooner than expected. My body’s functions rebooted and came back online.
The room drew into focus. The beautiful man was a balm to the torment. I studied him—his eyes, his face. Like a ballerina finding her balance, I fixed my gaze on him. He anchored me, and I allowed myself to devour the moment.
Being near him was breathtaking. He was attractive from across the room, but now, up close, it was a high-definition experience.
His dark hair was perfectly styled, and his facial hair was freshly groomed.
I had a powerful urge to reach out and touch his cheek, his hair.
I wondered how soft it would feel... and that gaze.
Most eyes were rather boring, all one shade of gray to me. But not him. Nash’s had flecks of variation, like the way it looks when glitter catches the light. His long, dark lashes were almost dewy, skin smooth and fresh.
He loomed over the deli counter, making it seem like a low table. His sister was the same—tall and stunning, with dark hair like his and a body I envied.
I’d always been small, which I attributed to my anxiety. When you’re constantly on edge, enjoying food is a challenge. I disliked feeling full, scared of getting sick and mortifying myself in public.
As a child, certain food textures bothered me, too. Something else my parents hated about me. They’d get angry that I wouldn’t try their fancy canapés, or flavor-forward dishes prepared by our chef. Heaven forbid.
If I didn’t eat it—then I didn’t eat. That was the punishment. As I grew stubborn, it also became my way of challenging their control.
Bill nudged my hand, and I looked away from the refrigerator, coming back to the present. He’d finished cleaning every bit of the treat from his face, paws, floor and anywhere else it could linger.
Mr. Beans let out a long, languorous yowl. It was time for his food now, too.
Pouring out the tuna bisque packet for Mr. Beans, I let him eat it on the counter so Bill wouldn’t harass him.
I grabbed the Cinnamon Toast Crunch from the cabinet and poured myself a bowl. I plunked myself down at the island, eating opposite Mr. Beans, yet far enough that his fishy breakfast smells wouldn’t reach me.
I’d planned on a quiet day, maybe cleaning my studio and getting it ready for a new project. I wasn’t sure yet what word or feeling would spark the next idea, but I had a couple of months to figure it out.
Later, after dark, I’d walk over to see how the show’s dismantling was progressing. The crew would already be there. By tonight, they’d have the entire space painted in lighter colors.
A text arrived. It was from Cat. I picked up my phone to read it while eating.
Cat: Great show, Sybbie! I can’t believe it! We cracked the half-million mark with that sale!
I choked as milk and cinnamon shot into my nose. Half a million? The highest my art had gone for previously was ninety-thousand.
The negotiation process was obviously not in my wheelhouse of responsibilities. Where I was trying to remain inconspicuous, it also meant being out of earshot during that moment, too. Plus, I liked the surprise of it—the reward for all the anguish.
I fumbled the phone in my hand. Holy Van Gogh.
Few living artists had sales like that. I mean, I knew of the duct tape banana guy, and of course Jeff Koons. But the circle was small.
Me: Really? ??
Cat: Really!
Three dots were bubbling on the screen for a while, stopped, then started again and stopped. There was a doozy coming. I needed time before she dropped the bomb I knew she wouldn’t back down from. She wasn’t blind. I’d seen her watching Nash and Betty talk to me last night.
Cat: I saw people talking to you last night as though they knew you. Who was that? Have we made friends?
She never missed a beat, and I hated it. I didn’t want to reply, so I got up from my stool and dumped the cinnamon milk down the drain before putting the bowl in the dishwasher. Looking forward to more sugar, I grabbed a bottled Frappuccino from the refrigerator.
My phone dinged again.
Cat: I can tell you’re ignoring me.
I closed my eyes, popped the lid, and took several big gulps. The cold of it was refreshing. Swiping my phone from the counter, I set the Frappuccino down.
Me: I don’t want to talk about it today.
Cat: Okay. But tomorrow you will.
I let out a dramatic growl, then slammed my phone back onto the counter. Those kinds of phrases always set me off. They felt so limiting.
Abandoning the phone, I walked away and up the stairs.
Mr. Beans shot after me like a furry bullet.
He was making his Ferrari sounds, like a roaring, high-pitched F1 car.
He rounded the corner in a flurry and toward my library and studio, knowing my destination.
Bill also followed, but far more reserved, nails clicking on the steps.
In my studio, I grabbed the metal jug of paint thinner, eager to clean all my neglected brushes.
With a hefty clunk, it landed on my workbench.
I walked over to the windows overlooking my backyard and swung them open to let in some air.
Grabbing a recycled sauce jar and some paper towels on my way back, I pulled on some gloves and a mask.
With furious resolve, I set to scraping the half-dry oil paint from the bristles of my brushes.
What bothered me most was the feeling of being trapped and cornered. I felt the walls closing in—Nash, Betty, Dr. Cat and the growing fame of my art. I had to decide what to do. Running was always an option. I could afford it. But truthfully, I was tired of being alone.
After a reflective pause, I flipped on my stereo, increasing the volume of my upbeat anger mix to drown out the thoughts. I let my head bob to the sound, treating my paintbrushes like drumsticks and microphones.
Tomorrow. All this could wait until then, possibly even next week. I would worry about it when the time came, and that wasn’t today.