Open up whore.
I smile, trotting into the living room, I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect time for a distraction. I swing open the door and there’s Jean, arms wrapped around breakfast sandwiches and iced coffees, a cropped band tee that just barely hits the waist band of his wide leg slouchy jeans. His wavy hair is perfectly messy, and a cigarette dangles from his lips. I snag it taking a puff before flicking it out the door and letting him in. He immediately drops the goods on the counter, looking around my brother’s place.
“Where is he?” he says in a hushed tone.
“The gym probably,” I tell him, rolling my eyes at the satisfied huff that leaves his throat. “Alright—donotmake a sound like that about my brother ever again.”
He sighs, feigning defeat. “I guess that’s fair,” he smirks, snagging the iced drink that seems more milk than coffee from the counter as he eyes me. “You look tired, babe.”
“Hmph,” is all I say, grabbing what I assume is mine and taking a long sip.
“What’s going on?” His voice turns solemn, more solemn than I’ve heard it in the short history of our friendship, and it’s a comfort I didn’t realize I even wanted.
I purse my lips, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t sleep.”
“Obviously,” he smiles gently, tilting his head. “Who is he, and how do I find him?”
I scoff, turning my head and he narrows his eyes.
“Somethings bothering you, you're usually much more…spritely?”
“Spritely?” I chuckle and roll my eyes. I know he’s right, there is something, a slow pull at the base of my stomach that never really goes away but seems a little stronger lately. I could pretend I don’t know why, usually I do. But why not tell Jean? Maybe it’ll help unwind whatever's furled up inside me, to let one person in. I let out a long breath, perching myself on the bar stool at the counter. His eyes shine with mirth and expectation but something in my face changes him because all of a sudden he’s serious. A look I haven’t really seen on him before but somehow makes him even more handsome. “My internship at that gallery, that I was tellin’ you about?” He nods. “My…professor got me that.”
He says nothing, just barely narrows his eyes in concentration.
“But at that point, he wasn’tjustmy professor,” I admit, and just the telling of it makes me feel a little lighter. I realize I haven’t said this to anyone.
Jean tries to fight the surprise on his face, but fails. “Okay. That’s…problematic?” He studies me and I feel my walls start to rise, defensive of a choice I know was the wrong one. His face starts to fall, “Fuck, Sloane. Did he?—”
“No!No,” I reiterate, desperate not to make this something it wasn’t. To minimize. It was two consenting adults falling in love, or maybe one- for the falling in love part. “He just,” I start to say, my voice small, “he’d done the same kind of thing before. I was dumb and took it more seriously than him.”
His shoulders fall and he put his coffee on thecounter before taking my hands. “I need you to hear me, Sloane. Youare notdumb. Some asshole exploiting your naiveté doesn’t say anything about you.”
Tears press at the backs of my eyes, and I blink hard against them. “No I know,” I say, not believing it. I let myself trust the things Elliot said to me; I let myself believe he would be there for me no matter what.
“But…?” Jean presses, and I purse my lips. “I know there’s something else. Usually, you can’t shut up.”
I swat at his arm, missing him when he leans back, laughing.
“Do you…miss him?”
“A lot.” I train my gaze just past him, the admission feels like I crashed head on into something I’ve been avoiding. “When we were together, I felt all this passion. Like I couldn’t stop creating. I was his muse but he was also mine. We were lost in each other’s artistry. It wasintenseand… I was so lost in it that when it ended, I think something broke in me.” I almost want to tell him the rest, but I can’t.
“Sloane you’re not broken, you’re perfect.” he says, his voice small and gentle like he’s afraid to contribute to the fracture.
“No I’m broken Jean, I can’t paint. Like for myself—I can’t do it. I had never needed anyone to help me paint. It feels like all that passion, that sureness was wrung out of me and I don’t know how to get it back and now with this reporter…”
“Reporter?” Jean’s voice moves to curiosity as he examines me, his eyes softer than I’ve ever seen them.
“I’m being harassed by a reporter doing a story about all hisvictims.” I shake my head, quoting the word hollowly because maybe that is what I am, it’s certainly how people have painted me.
“Maybe you should talk to her?—”
“No!” I cut him off, a sharp silence wedging between us and I use my fingers crusted with blue paint to squeeze the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry I just—I can’t, not with everything going on. My parents don’t even know I left California, if they found this out…” I shake my head and Jean appears beside me squeezing my shoulder.
“You don’t ever have to explain yourself to me.” He rubs my back and my heart warms with the realization of how lucky I am to have found this boy in the mess of my life. “What was his name again?” Jean says, some levity enters his voice as his voice shudders with mock violence, shoulders squared, he pulls his phone out. “Maybe torching his shit will bring your inspiration back.”
“Stop,” I chuckle, sniffing back the little bit of emotion that bled over. “It’s not his fault.”
