“No to whatever you’re thinking about doing to that new neighbor of yours. Come by tonight and I’ll feed you dinner. Demi’s dying to show you all the baby stuff she’s picked up already. It’s been one never-ending shopping spree ever since we found out.” He kisses his fingers before waving at the two of us.
A dark laugh thumps through Neva’s chest as she falls in the seat before me. Both Neva’s overdyed hair and sooted soul have always been a touch too dark for me, but that hasn’t stopped us from becoming fast friends.
“Zoey Jackson, you are a subtle little bitch.” She pulls a pen from her beehive and stabs it behind her ear.
“I’ve learned from the best.” I lean over and pluck the pen from the side of her head and start doodling on my napkin.
“Abel seems nice.” She lays her hand over my budding work of art in an effort to garner my full attention. “That is, if you like them bleeding with their entrails dragging behind them. He’s as fucked up as you are in the event you didn’t notice.”
“I happen to like them mortally wounded—just the way you do.” Neva has a track record of dating a long line of losers. We bonded over our shared sexual encounters with Warren. He’s the prize you never wanted to win.
Neva pitches her head back and barks out a laugh. “Oh, honey, I may like them damaged, but I’m walking in lucid.” She leans in, those florescent ocean blue eyes of hers lighting up the room as if it were midnight. “You, my rotten friend, are a zombie. Do yourself a favor and keep an arm’s length away from him at all times. Unless you’re willing to deal with all of that sick inside you, whatever you have planned for that boy will backfire spectacularly.” She glowers at me, the heavy frown sinking into her laugh lines. “I’m not exactly a warm and fuzzy person. On a typical day, I put a curse on at least six customers.”
We share a dry laugh at the thought.
“But there’s something about you, Zoey.” She shakes her head with a wounded look of her own. “I can’t stand to see you throwing your life away. Don’t chase a broken man. Lose sight of that bottle you’ve leashed yourself to and sweep clean those shards that are cutting you from the inside.” Her dark blue nails graze gently over the back of my hand. “I’m so sick of watching you bleed out. Take action before the universe does. It’s trying to tell you something. Talk to your brother. Tell him the truth.”
“No.” My eyes widen with horror at the thought. Suddenly, I’m regretting ever spilling my life at her undead feet. But I was drunk, and Neva morphed into one giant over pierced ear. “I’m not talking to anyone. At the moment, I regret talking to you.” I capture her by the wrist and lean in hard. “I will kill you on sight if you ever breathe a word.”
Neva’s hardened features cut into a razor of a smile. “Make it look like an accident, sweetheart.” She gives a little wink, and a hard groan comes from me.
Slowly, ever so carefully, Neva and I share a dark and twisted laugh.
And just like that, she’s lightened my mood as I make my way back to the boathouse.
A large shipping box sits under the door, and I head over. The address label readsAbel McCarthy, but it’s been crossed out with a Sharpie. The wordsFor youare scrawled over the top. I glance toward his boathouse. Abel is nowhere to be seen, but I can feel him watching me, his gaze blistering the entire right side of my body, so I haul the huge package inside and settle it on the kitchen table.
Slowly, I pull a knife along the thick brown seam before cracking it open, and I gasp.
Three moderately small canvases lie in a row, silent as dead soldiers. A six pack of canvas boards sits in front of them, and the rest of the box is filled with watercolors, acrylics, and expensive oil paints. I pull out a kit of brushes, Dossier, a brand that makes me hold my breath because I know how God-awful expensive they are. Just below that sits a box of pastels and charcoals. A kneaded eraser, two stacks of paper—one for watercolor and one for the pastels—a can of fixate, and a bottle of gesso. An entire mini art studio in a box.
I press my fingers to my mouth a moment, trying to assess just how much and what I shared about my life, and thankfully that brief conversation I had with him comes back to haunt me.
“Wow,” I marvel, slowly unpacking the contents. First Kennedy, then Gavin, and now Abel. But it’s Neva’s words that come back to me. “Yes, Neva, if I didn’t know better, I’d think the universe is trying to tell me something.”
* * *
In the eveningthe sun squats low over the lake, melting like an orange Popsicle into the inky fuchsia-kissed water. The trees seem to grow in length with their rich dark hues, crowding around Lake Loveless like brokenhearted suitors she will never choose.
Abel appears at the shoreline as if he had simply blinked to life at the edge of the water, giving a friendly wave, and I marvel at this beautiful beast of a man who has the power to warm my heart with one thoughtful gesture.
“Hey, neighbor,” I call out as I head on down to meet him.
He spreads a worn plaid blanket onto the sand before falling over it and patting a seat for me. Abel McCarthy has an openness—a dare I say,friendliness—about him that wasn’t available to me through either Warren or Caleb. It’s almost as if he actually wants me around, and just before that thought permeates my mind, I’m quick to shoo it away.
“What’s this?” I tease, landing next to him. My legs curl up as I hug my knees like a giddy teenager. “Was that an actual invite?”
“Who wouldn’t invite you to sit with them?” He offers a sly wink as if it were a joke, and my heart splits open. I brush the thought away. I’m so tired of trying to decipher every wink and blink mankind has to offer as some sort of a ripe rejection. I’m getting pretty tired of rejecting myself as well.
“Thank you for the art supplies.” The moment grows somber as his affect falls to match with mine.
“You’re welcome. I’m sure you’ll put them to good use.” He reaches over and pats my knee, an altogether platonic gesture, and now I don’t know what to make of this man. I’ve never met a boy who didn’t want something sexual from me. At school I always felt like a walking exchange program. And I would often get the shitty end of the exchange. Men are most interested in what you can gift them sexually, and receiving a valuable gift would need to be somehow reciprocated in a sexual nature. With Abel, I would gladly comply with those old foolish rules.
“You didn’t have to do that. Please, let me pay you back. I know that stuff is expensive.”
“It’s a gift, Zoey.”
He leans back, and the orange glow from the sun makes love to his eyes. Abel truly is a god—Zeus with fire streaming from his eyes. He has no idea how effortlessly he’s seducing me, how far I’d be willing to go to get what I want from him. I’m not looking for love. I gave up all hope of that. I just need somebody to hold—and, dear God, Abel McCarthy has the perfect body to do so much more than hold. It’s practically a waste to let him sit by the lake unattended.
