CHAPTER 37
Sybil
One gothically-clad foot in front of the other, I concentrated on every step of the stairs. I was frayed, afraid I’d trip as I considered my next move. Bill was in step with me, glued to my side. He kept tapping my thigh with his nose, as though to remind me of his presence and support.
My initial thought was to find refuge in my room—slam the door and lock it to the world—but I was sick of feeling trapped and hidden, claustrophobic over my life.
I’d be stuck with the smells and atmosphere of this damned house, unable to think straight.
Feet landing with a thump, I turned toward the front door.
Bill’s leash was on the bench in the entry. I snapped it up, shaking off the flakes of drywall from where the door had crashed into the wall. I clipped it to Bill’s collar and reached for the dusty doorknob.
It was dark out, the brand of darkness I loved.
I’d missed its false comfort and obscurity.
My house across the street seemed to stare back, its windows lifeless.
The inside was gutted, much as I felt now.
We were stuck in limbo, dismantled, waiting for a new plan to build us up again.
It seemed our fates were intertwined. We were on the verge of something new, and it was an opportunity.
This time, I’d build it all back the way I wanted—the way I needed.
With a careful pull, I closed the door, not wanting to announce my departure to Nash and Betty. I wasn’t running away for good; I just needed to walk and think.
Did I want to cry and be mad or laugh? Either was plausible. It was a crazed feeling bubbling inside me, one that threatened to tear me apart, but I was tired of letting it.
We trotted down the steps, and I took Bill one block down before turning the corner and kneeling before him.
“Give me your paw,” I instructed.
He obeyed, putting it in my hand. I winced as a bit of glass cut into my palm. Turning it over, I picked the glittery bits out. Luckily, there were only a few shards, and they didn’t go through the bandages. If they had, I was prepared to knife up and hunt down that fucking Rat Man myself.
I squeezed his feet to make sure he was okay and able to go for a walk. Bill didn’t show any sign of discomfort or pain, licking my hand in reassurance. We set off.
My mind felt jumbled with change. I didn’t know what to grasp at first. Which fresh crisis deserved my analysis? All of it felt exhausting. For so long I’d picked apart every event, every decision of my life with Cat, or myself; I was over it. Why did everything warrant analysis?
There had to be a simpler way to deal with the scary thoughts.
There had to be an easier way to cope. Why couldn’t I let myself experience life and make my decision based on the feeling it garnered?
What if I didn’t have to consider what Cat, Nash, or even my parents might think?
What if I just existed, like a spoon stirring through a mug of tea, letting everything part around me with grace?
I thought about the auction, seeing it as a cup of tea, and seeing myself flowing through it. The moments swirled around me—the bidding; the man stealing the art.
Having someone steal my art for a second time wasn’t all that negative.
It made me feel wanted. The entire evening was electric with joy and excitement.
I’d never in my life felt this alive; it was a fantastic time.
No part of me wanted it any other way. All other outcomes sounded boring in comparison.
I’d already sacrificed a piece of myself creating that painting; it didn’t need to take another piece from me now. The art wasn’t mine to feel sad or angry or scared about anymore. It had a life of its own, and I admired that.
Journaling was similar to painting; getting a negative memory or feeling onto the page was final. It felt good to release the burden. No one wants to carry it a second time; that’s the point in working it out of you. We’re good, thank you for coming. Please don’t come again.
Going to the auction was unlike anything I’d ever done before. I was still in awe of seeing an event so unique and new. Someone bought my story, and they loved it so much, they paid millions for it, fucking millions!
Moving to the subject of Bee and Nash, I stirred through those emotions, witnessing all the moments we’d spent together the last week. Was I mad at them, or scared?
No.
If anything, I had a lot of new burning questions. Like, what the hell did they mean by ‘solving mysteries’ in the art world. Are they the real-life version of Tomb Raider? What was that like? What had they taken?
This new information was frankly intriguing. I ached to know more. It’s as though the movie stopped midway through a brilliant mystery, leaving me on the edge of my seat. I didn’t want to leave the theater.
When I looked up at the street sign, I found I was now in Greenwich. I was only a few blocks from where the show had been just a month ago—though it felt like a lifetime. I set off in that direction, Bill trotting at my side with his tongue wagging. He’d missed our little evening walks.
There weren’t many people out tonight, no one paying us any mind. I watched my feet as we strode along, thinking this was a good way to break-in the stiff new shoes.
What a boring thought to have in this moment.
When we reached the location, I almost didn’t recognize it.
The front was alight with swaths of new lighting, pouring out into the street from the patio space.
It glowed with a web of tiny twinkling lights, reminiscent of a fairy garden.
Above the door, a sign in elegant script announced: “Fairytale Speakeasy.”
People sat on the patio, soft murmuring voices floating from tables, and small seating nooks.
Outdoor furniture of unmatched shapes and sizes bundled together in odd but organized groupings.
Well-placed and ample outdoor heaters cast a radiating warmth, the heat noticeable on my face even from the sidewalk.
Toward the double doors, I could just make out the inside space, filled to the brim with indoor plants and cozy-looking mismatched furniture. The deli counter was still in place, and they were using it as a bar, just as I had.
Bill and I stopped at the gate to the patio. A sign hung there and it read, “Dogs and People Welcome. Introverts preferred.” I considered it for a moment, then looked back up. A woman approached me, smiling.
“Would you like to sit?” she asked in a friendly voice before noticing Bill. “What an adorable dog!” she exclaimed. “Aww, what happened to his paws?”
I swallowed, a little nervous, but replied. “He got his paws burned in a fire.”
The woman stood, face frowning. “A fire! Oh my, what a brave boy.” She scratched his head. “I hope everyone is okay?”
I nodded.
She smiled again, tilting her head. “Well, how about we sit you both down over in that cozy corner? Would you like to sit? You look ready for a break.”
Looking at where she pointed, the corner was private, and did indeed look cozy. There was a heater over it, evergreen plants placed around like a little forest, decorated with warm holiday lights. I mulled over the implications of agreeing before letting those thoughts go, and leading with my gut.
“Okay.” I smiled.
She led me over, and I sat on a comfortable outdoor padded armchair, Bill taking the one opposite. She handed me a device.
“You can order direct from this screen here, pay for it, and a server will bring it out to you. Our speakeasy is just that—a place you can speak and feel at ease. We want our guests to be comfortable and stress-free, removing any anxiety about waiting for a check or speaking to servers. No one will bother you or pressure you to order anything. Patrons will keep to themselves, and no one will approach you unless you want them to. Your server will deliver your order. No need to tip either; it’s all built in.
When you’re ready to leave, you just leave,” she announced.
I loved it. What a great idea, and how incredibly perfect for me. “Okay, great. Thanks.” I smiled, awestruck.
She turned and left. No awkward silences, weird lingering or strained goodbyes.
I glanced around, noticing that each person or group had a very private air about them. This place was attracting a type, and that type felt like me. Cozy clothes were plentiful, books in many hands, and computers. Several patrons had headphones on, even sunglasses despite the night.
Scrolling through the options, I selected a whiskey drink called “The Witty Comeback.” I used my phone to tap the screen to pay for it and then set the device on the small table between Bill and me.
Bill was curled in on himself, comfortable being here.
A thrill ran through me. Look at me now, I thought.
I took out my phone, thinking it was time to message Cat and explain the madness I was certain she saw on TV.
Me: I assumed you watched?
She must have been staring at her phone, waiting to hear from me, because her reply was fast.
Cat: I can’t believe it! I’m still wondering if I haven’t just died, and this isn’t real.
I laughed.
We chatted back and forth about the sheer magnitude of it all, and I told her about Nash and Blue.
She died a second time when she read that part, before swooning via text at the beauty and romance of it.
She admitted that part of her wondered if they’d figured out who I was; they’d seemed like a sharp duo.
When I explained the theft at the auction, her opinion was that it was indeed something personal against Bee, but that she doubted the thief realized who I was. I told her I’d left Nash’s house after learning everything to clear my head.
She about died a third time when I let her know I was at an actual restaurant, sipping a cocktail.
And then she came up with an excellent idea.
Cat: So, what if you steal the art back?
It took me a while to consider this. I couldn’t do it alone, but I knew the perfect accomplices.