Chapter 21 #3
I look at Bell’s picture next to the article highlighting the issues around housing and sustainability and his vision for the city’s future.
He’s wearing high-waisted trousers and a button-down casually open at the neck, sleeves rolled up to highlight his defined forearms as his hands are stuck in his pockets.
His hair is blown out, straight and gold and wind mussed as he stands on a hill with the city skyline behind him.
He’s smiling, blue eyes lighter than the May sky draped like a canopy over the skyscrapers, and there’s that Ryan Bell charm on full display, irresistible even in grainy newsprint.
The dimple, the loose and friendly posture, the beauty of his exposed throat, his jaw, his long lashes.
With the trousers and suntan, he looks like he’s just come from a vacation in Venice. In 1958.
I remember seeing this picture as I settled a fresh stack of newspapers into their holder at Buddy’s and then freezing in place.
Reading every single word and then starting at the beginning and reading again.
Staring at the picture, at God’s affection just heaped onto this one person, this person who literally seduced me into ruin.
And the idea that he was just going on with his life, that he had everything he could ever want, that, why, he could have an entire city if he wanted, infuriated me.
The paper thought he was moral? Good? That he cared about the people in this city?
Was I the only one who knew the truth? That behind his lovely face and silky words was a depraved and hungry soul?
The idea had come to me the minute I got home that morning, and I’d finished the statue faster than I’d finished anything.
Ironically, it felt like I was possessed, like it was completely out of my power not to finish the statue, not to arrange to have it dropped in front of city hall.
If this city wanted Ryan Bell, they could have him, but they should at least know who he really was first.
Yet another impulse inspired by Ryan Bell that would have been best ignored.
I leave the binder in his office the way it was and go to the studio, where I spend the afternoon eating the pomegranate seeds and staring at the light slowly moving across the wood.
It’s been so long since I’ve had this kind of material in front of me and in this kind of space. And…and time.
A gilded cage indeed.
At the cusp of evening, after I’ve washed my hands and started moving the pieces around for the dresser commission, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize.
There’s more work to do than I planned on, and I probably won’t be home until after you go to bed. Have you taken your medicine?
It has to be Bell. I’m surprised how disappointed I am that he’s staying late tonight, that tonight might not be the night, and I’m surprised at my own bitterness about it, how much it stings.
I close my eyes and think of the perseverance of the saints, of the patient goodness of martyrs.
This uncertainty is just another cross to bear, I guess.
Yes, I text back. And I understand.
I don’t really understand. He was so eager to…to acquire me, and then he couldn’t even make the drive to Kansas City without pulling off the road to take the edge off. And then today, I felt his desire, the iron thickness of it, and then he’d sprung away like I’d become suddenly repulsive.
Maybe he doesn’t want to have sex with me now that he has me here. Maybe now that he’s seen me in a hospital gown, laid eyes on my breasts or felt the soft, wet parts of my body, he’s changed his mind. I’m not worth the money after all. Buyer’s remorse.
That would be ideal, right? Except now that I’ve imagined a future where Busy is taken care of and the weight of her life isn’t laid across my back, I can’t not imagine it. I don’t want Bell to break our deal even if it still terrifies me.
And, a small voice says in the back of my mind, it was nice to feel wanted. The frantic look in his eyes in the back of the truck, the shaking hands. The thrill of being touched. The warmth of his skin.
It would be ridiculous, though, to get used to that. I’m shy and worn and graying, and he’s the dazzling talent who could be mayor one day.
Dinner should be delivered to the warehouse any minute now, he texts. Don’t worry about dishes.
You don’t have to do that. I can just eat something here
.
Then your dinner will get cold outside the front door. This is sent with an emoji shrug.
I go to the front door to see a paper bag left on the stoop. It’s from a restaurant I don’t recognize, but when I open the bag in the kitchen, I find a spiced chicken soup and several soft rolls. He’s feeding me like I’m sick, which I guess I am.
I eat it all. I think I’ve eaten more in the last two days than I have in the last seven days combined, but it tastes so good, and not having to cook it myself…
Drowsiness creeps up on me after I clean up dinner, and I take advantage of the waterproof bandages on my leg to shower. I fall asleep in Bell’s bed afterward, even though it’s barely dark, and sleep straight until morning, oblivious to everything but the way his scent lingers in the room.