I shot her a look, and she recoiled slightly.
“As you know, I’ve got an…appointment that I can’t put off, so…”
“Neil and I will go out,” I said hastily to end the conversation. I looked to Neil, chewing on my fingernail, and he frowned.
“Really? Out where?” my mother asked, taking an inquisitive stance with her hands on her hips.
“Not far, just to the diner a couple of blocks over. Neil’s never been to Detroit, so…” I gave him a conspiratorial look, and he got up off the couch, looking a little annoyed. I didn’t like the stiffness in his face or the tension in his body. But he kept his composure in front of my mother, approaching me with his usual confidence and a phony smile.
“Sure, let’s go. If it’ll make you more comfortable, Ms. Martin, why not?” He was humoring me but doing so in a blatantly sarcastic way. My mother straightened up warily and scrutinized us both again.
“Okay… I’ll go get ready then,” she answered, heading up the stairs. The moment she was gone, I rounded on Neil, my eyes narrowed to two burning slits.
“You could have at least tried to sound enthused, you know?” I chided him as his stare, which had become ravenous, fixed on my lips.
“Someone should let your mother know that if I want to fuck her daughter, I will. I can do it up against a wall if I have to. No bedroom required,” he said, fully the swaggering blowhard.
“And do you really think I’d let you?” I answered pointedly, and he reached out to touch a lock of my hair. He twisted it around his index finger, fixing his eyes on me, making me see the little flashes of mischief that moved through them.
“Would you have the guts to stop me?” he asked softly, his thumb rubbing my lower lip. He gently traced the edges of it and breathed in deep.
“And would you have the guts to use me again after what you said to my father?” I murmured, and Neil looked from my lips to my eyes.
“I had to say that.” He continued touching my lip as he stared sadly at me. The flickers of mischief were gone now, giving way to the more sensitive, more human side of him.
“I don’t remember anyone forcing you.” I wanted to give myself over to his touch, but I forced myself to remain motionless and simply take it. I could keep doing it, too, for as long as I wanted.
“You don’t get it, Selene.” Neil rested his forehead against mine and closed his eyes. His warm hand stroked my cheek while his other hand grasped my hip tightly. It occurred to me that he always seemed to need some sort of contact with me, even if it was barely perceptible. It was like it was necessary to give him the strength to talk to me.
“If you were clearer, maybe I would understand better,” I managed, and he looked back into my eyes. He pushed aside my bangs and looked at my scar, sighing.
“Well, I—” My mother walked in again on us. Tremendous timing on that woman. Neil immediately jumped back, and I tried to gather myself. I didn’t want her noticing how overwhelmed I was by him or the kind of intimacy we shared.
“Uh…Mom…” I smiled stiffly as she sat down on the couch.
“Anton’s running late; I’ll wait down here. Maybe you should go get ready while I have a little chat with Neil,” she suggested and I almost laughed in her face. I knew exactly how that “chat” was going to go. Neil would refuse to utter a single word. He was much less open or talkative than she believed him to be. As expected, I saw him stiffen at the idea of having a conversation with my mother.
I hurried up to my room, though, because I didn’t want to leave the two of them alone for too long. My mother didn’t think much of guys like Neil, and honestly, what parent would? So I washed up and got changed as fast as I could, pulled on a pair of high boots, and did my hair, leaving it to hang loose over my shoulders.
I hurried down the stairs and immediately spotted Neil, wearing his leather jacket again and intently studying a painting on the wall. My mother, on the other hand, was intently studying him from the sofa, like he was some science experiment.
“I’m ready,” I said as I went down the stairs, afraid of getting another lecture from my mother. Fortunately, Matt had only told her about our relationship, not that we slept together. I wanted to get Neil out of there as fast as possible. She’d already told me she didn’t trust him, so I was working hard to make sure she didn’t ask any more compromising questions. As soon as I hit the bottom step, though, I realized their conversation had taken an unexpected turn.
“You like that one? My daughter is always complaining that I buy too many paintings and we don’t have anywhere to put them,” my mother was saying to Neil. Neither of them had noticed me.
“Yeah, I actually like Magritte a lot,” he answered with a small smile. “This one is calledThe Lovers, right?” He jerked his chin at it. Meanwhile, I crept forward slowly so I could observe the situation, careful not to interrupt them.
“That’s right,” my mother said, surprised.
“I know it was done in 1928 or thereabouts. It’s part of a series; the first one is at MoMA in New York, and the second one is in the National Gallery in Australia. I like the symbolism of it—love interpreted as a feeling that can’t be seen, kind of a conflict between our outward appearance and the things we hide even from ourselves,” Neil continued with his deep, hoarse voice that made every inch of my skin erupt into goosebumps. Meanwhile, my mother stared at him, thunderstruck, like she wasn’t expecting someone like him to be cultured.
I, however, knew how vast, mysterious and rich he was inside. Rich with inner knowledge that he didn’t like to brag about. That was his way: He was like a book one could only discover page by page. A book that contained an endlessly variable world, one of infinite depth and unpredictability.
“Yes.” My mother blinked, trying not to look too shocked. “The Loversis one of my favorite paintings. Other than teaching literature, art is my great love. I find it completely fascinating,” she said as Neil smiled peacefully at her.
“Are you an art lover as well?” she asked him, and he nodded.
“I spent a lot of time with my maternal grandparents when I was a kid. They were very demanding when it came to learning. They wanted all their grandkids to have a classical education. So I had to skip soccer games,having snack time, or riding bikes with friends to go to the museum, visit the library, or take private lessons,” he explained, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. That was the point when I cleared my throat and they finally noticed me.
