Release Me

“Jesus, Ollie,” I say.

He looks contrite. Hell, he looks beat up. “I fucked up, Nik. What can I say?”

I exhale. I’m furious, but this is Ollie and I love him and I have to be there for him. For him, and for Jamie. Oh, God. Jamie. “It had to be Jamie? You couldn’t have fucked someone I don’t love? You guys are my best friends—I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”

“I know. I do. I’m sorry. Look, come get some lunch with me. I’ll—we can talk. Or not talk. Just come, okay?”

I nod. “I’ll just have a tea or something. I had a huge lunch with Damien.”

“Damien,” he repeats, and I force myself not to wince. I hadn’t meant to mention Damien’s name. “Christ, Nik. He’s bad news.”

“Don’t you dare,” I say, and I have to work to keep tight control on my voice. “Don’t you dare give me that shit. You can’t stand here and tell me you don’t like Damien Stark. You can’t toss something like that at me and stand there like you’ve got the moral high ground beneath your feet, because you so do not.”

“You’re right—you’re right.” He runs his fingers through his already untidy hair. “Listen, I’m just gonna get a burger and head back to the office. We should talk tomorrow, okay? You can berate me about Jamie all you want. And maybe I’ll even have some shit to tell you, too.”

“About Damien?” I ask coldly.

He hooks his thumb at the door. “I’m going to just—I really am sorry.”

I don’t bother saying anything else. I watch him go, and then I take my stuff and stomp off to my room. My mood is vile, and twice I pick up the phone and think about calling Damien. But what would I say? Hi, you want to paint me and you’re paying me to be your plaything and so I thought I’d call you and dump my friends’ problems on you? Somehow, that just didn’t seem right.

Jamie’s still in the bathroom, most likely because she’s either avoiding me or working up the courage to talk to me. Honestly, I’m not in any hurry.

I boot up my laptop and use the cord from the Leica’s box to download the images into Photoshop. The first one that loads is the rippled image of the wave-battered beach. It’s crisp and clean and makes me think of escape. As if I could step into the froth that the camera has captured and let the tide tug me out to sea, away from everything and everyone.

Except I don’t want to get away from everyone.…

I open another image, and find myself looking at Damien. I’ve caught him in motion, and I think that’s appropriate. When I think of Damien Stark, he’s always moving. He’s a man who makes things happen. He’s action personified, and I’ve managed to catch that, along with something else. Joy.

He’d been turning toward me when I snapped the picture, and his face fills my screen. His lips are parted with the beginning of a laugh, and the afternoon light is reflected in his eyes. His expression is wide open and he’s completely in the moment. My chest feels heavy with emotion. I’ve seen him smile and laugh and smirk and tease, but only in this captured moment have I truly seen exultation.

I press my fingertips to the computer screen and touch Damien’s face. Damien, so strong and yet so injured.

I think of the scars that mar my body and pull up my feet so that my heels rest on the desk chair. Then I hug my knees tight. Damien may not have taken a knife to his skin, but I know that he’s scarred, too. But when I look at his face—at the euphoria in this image—it’s not the injuries I see, but the man who survived them.

After a few minutes, I hear the bathroom door open and Jamie’s soft footfalls on the carpet. They pause outside my door and I tense, but she doesn’t knock and a few moments later I hear the click of her door. I wait a minute, and then head for the bathroom for a shower. I feel gross, soiled by my friends’ dirty laundry. I want to stand in scalding water and let it wash the grime off me.

I take off my clothes and get in without waiting for the temperature to adjust. At first it’s ice cold, and I want to scream from the shock. Then the heater kicks in and I close my eyes, taking it, wanting to slough off the outer layer of myself.

I squirt some of Jamie’s strawberry scented bodywash into my hand and rub it all over myself, including my inner thighs. I slow down as I feel the raised flesh beneath my fingers.

Damien’s going to see them tonight.

I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking about how stupid I’ve been. I’d been planning on turning his little game around on him. Making the revelation of my scars some sort of triumphant fuck you instead of the reminder of how weak I’ve been. Of how much I let the pain take over.

But I no longer want my scars to be a weapon. I no longer want to risk losing this week with Damien. I’ve lost so much already today.

I stand there in the shower, my shoulders shaking as I cry, and hot tears snake down my cheeks to mix with the scalding water that beats down upon my damaged skin.

19

I am standing on a cliff, the waves crashing far below me.

I look down. Damien is there, his arms outstretched, his head back. He’s calling to me. You’re mine, he says. Jump to me. I’ll catch you.

Jump,

Just jump,

Just jump …

I wake with a start as the timer on my phone blares. I’d closed my eyes after my shower intending only to lay in bed for ten minutes. Thankfully I had the foresight to set the timer for an hour just in case. It’s almost five—Damien will be here in just over an hour.

I don’t bother dressing in anything fancy. After all, I’m just going to be taking my clothes off again. I frown and tell myself it will be okay. He won’t want the painting once he learns the truth, but he won’t be cruel. Damien might be ice sometimes, but he’s not cruel.

I pull on jeans and a Universal Studios theme park tank top I bought last year when I’d flown out to visit Jamie. I slide on the flip-flops, check my hair in the mirror, and decide that I look passable. I’m not wearing makeup, and I feel a bit naked without it. One of those sad truths that annoys me, since I only feel like I need makeup every time I step out into the world because my mother drilled into my head that a woman shouldn’t leave the house without first putting her face on.

Really, Mother? Because I’m pretty sure that faces aren’t actually removable.

Yet despite my quick dip into the land of sarcastic comebacks, I still bury myself under cosmetics every day of the week. I console myself with the knowledge that most girls do the same. It’s not a mother thing, it’s a feminine unity thing. Or, better, it’s a me thing.