Virna DePaul: It Started That Night

He stuck his hands in his pockets and slouched. “You look busy.” He glanced at her paints before turning away.

“Hey,” she said, switching to English. “Don’t leave yet. I need someone to help me paint some tiles. And if you’re feeling good, why don’t you help me?”

He didn’t look at her, but he didn’t walk away, either.

“I saw you looking at my paints.” She grinned, feeling more at ease. “And I know you didn’t come just to see me. Or did you?” Her voice was light, trying to reestablish a rapport with him.

He turned his face slightly, and she saw the flush move up his neck and face. Once again, she wondered how this boy, who loved cheeseburgers, basketball and backgammon, had gotten involved with gangs. “I need an eagle for a mural in the pediatric ward,” she said, rushing to cover up her faux pas. “You think you’re up for painting one?”

He looked at the table and paints again. Gave a longsuffering sigh and shrugged. Despite being only fifteen, he towered above her and had arms that were thick with muscle. A boy trapped in a man’s body. In a man’s world. He took a seat next to Fiona and Lily joined him.

Lily worked with Fiona and Albert for over an hour, slipping into a comfortable silence.

“Lily.”

This time, Lily didn’t jerk at the intrusion of another person’s voice in the silence. And the frown on her face as she turned toward John’s voice was more in reaction to her lack of fear than his sudden appearance. Why was it that Nancy’s voice could startle her when John’s didn’t?

He stepped into the room and after a long look at Lily, turned his attention to Albert and Fiona. Almost instantly, Albert stood with a loud scrape of his chair and grabbed his backpack. “I’ve gotta go, Lily.”

“But why—” Lily started, sighing in exasperation when Albert gave Fiona a quick wave and rushed out the door. Angry now, she turned back to John. To her shock, Fiona had left her own seat and sidled up next to him.

He crouched down next to her. “Hey, sweetie. What have you got there?”

“Fiona—”

After shooting her a look that made her protest falter like a fumbled football, John smiled encouragingly at Fiona. She handed him a piece of paper.

He whistled. “What a great drawing. Is this your cat?”

Smiling, Fiona held up one finger.

“One of them?” He laughed when she nodded vigorously. “Very cool.”

Leaving the paper in his hand, Fiona skipped back to the table and started drawing again. Lily stared at her in shock. The little girl was rarely so friendly and she never shared her art with strangers. That she did so with John made Lily feel a strange pang in her chest.

“Who was that … boy? A patient of yours.”

Lily said nothing but didn’t miss the pause before he said “boy.” Like he’d wanted to say something else. Like he was criticizing who she chose to consort with—again. Just like he had all those years ago with Hardesty.

Rubbing the back of his neck, John jerked his chin at Fiona. “She’s a doll.”

She didn’t know why, but his words, more than his obvious disapproval of Albert, made her bristle. “Well, she’s blond, just like Stacy. I guess you’ve still got the touch.”

John stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides.

She mentally cursed her wayward tongue.

“So you don’t trust anyone anymore, Lily? Not even friends?”

She looked away. “I don’t have friends. I have my work. I have my family. That’s all I need.”

“Is that why you stopped writing Carmen?”

She bit her lip and closed her eyes at the mention of her best friend’s name. Former best friend.

“It took her a long time to get over that, you know. She misses you.”

“I never meant to hurt her.” To move on, Lily had needed to divorce herself from him completely. Since Carmen was John’s sister, that had seemed to require divorcing herself from Carmen, as well.

“You trusted her once. You trusted me.”

Anger crowded out her guilt and sorrow. She hadn’t just trusted him. She’d loved him. With everything inside her. With her entire heart and soul. He’d taken what she’d offered and crushed it. “Yes, and that was my mistake. I don’t trust you now. I don’t like you. I don’t even want to look at you.”

“Bull.” He said it quietly, but emphatically.

She looked wildly at Fiona, who was oblivious to the drama unfolding around her, then said, “I’m at work! How dare you—”

After glancing toward Fiona himself, John shook his head. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Lowering his voice to a whisper, he leaned toward her. “But one thing I’m certain of. You might not like me, Lily. But you’re still attracted to me.”

She tried to deny it, but the words stuttered to a halt in her throat. She couldn’t speak past the desire rippling through her, making her skin so sensitive the weight of her clothes became unbearable.

A shameful heat warmed her body. And a shameful realization—she’d felt more alive in the past few minutes than she had in God knows how long. “You’re insane.”

His eyes narrowed and swept her body, stopping on her nipples, which she could feel straining against the cotton of her shirt. “I don’t think so.”

He moved as if to touch her, but a nurse stepped into the room. She paused when she saw them. “Sorry! I just came to bring Fiona to her next appointment. You okay, Lily?”

Lily didn’t take her eyes off John. He turned, walked to the window, and propped an arm on the window frame to stare outside.

Trying to follow his lead, she looked at the nurse and smiled. “I’m fine. We’re discussing a private matter.”

The woman’s gaze drifted to John. Understanding flared in her eyes as she assumed John was a patient or the distraught parent of one. She got Fiona’s things together. Lily gave the girl a hug and promised to see her soon. The nurse closed the door as she left.

Lily took the offensive, trying something she hadn’t yet: reason. “Look, all I care about is making sure Hardesty pays for what he did. You’re not the only one who can ask questions. Maybe I’ll do some investigating on my own—”

He jerked around to face her. “And put yourself in danger again? It took Hardesty killing your mother before you realized what a danger he was the first time.”

The words hit her like a battering ram, causing her to stumble. Although she pressed her lips together, she couldn’t hold back a whimper of pain.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I don’t want to fight. I came here to apologize. You didn’t give me a chance … I didn’t mean for you to see those pictures. I mean—” He threaded his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I feel like an idiot.”

“Good,” she said, but her words were empty. Slowly, she sank into a chair and hung her head so her hair covered her face. Be fair for once, she told herself. This isn’t John’s fault. No matter how much his rejection had hurt, he’d never made any promises or declarations of love to mislead her. And he’d had no part in what happened afterward.

But here he was. A big, impossible-to-ignore reminder of her own foolishness.

She heard him move and raised her head. He was staring at one of the mosaics she’d made and hung on the wall, a cheery swirl of color creating a sunflower. He stroked his finger across the individual tiles. She shivered as if he’d touched her body. Pleasure rioted through her.

For several seconds, his gaze remained fixed on the mosaic. When he looked up, he studied her with the same intensity. “It fits—you being an art therapist.”

She rolled her eyes—self-preservation. “I’m so glad you approve.”