“Tea” drags on for hours, and when Dorian and I finally get away, we drive to the Battery and walk along the ocean for a while. It’s hot, so the sea breeze feels like the breath of heaven itself.
“They seemed pretty into my stuff,” I tell Dorian at last. “Or…maybe I was imagining it. Maybe they were just being nice.”
He laughs. “Those women? They don’t do ‘just being nice.’ Cutthroats, all of them. They’re art collectors, sure, but they’re also vicious hunters. They like to be the first to ‘discover’ promising young artists. I’ve seen them go to war over who found a certain creator first. We just chummed the water, Baz, and the sharksare swarming. Just wait. Check your email and your shop listings tonight, and you’ll see what I mean.”
“And you knew all those women? How?”
“I’ve visited Charleston before to see Lloyd, and he introduced me around. That’s how I met three of them. One is a friend of a contact back in Nashville.”
“I’d love to go to Nashville,” I murmur, bracing my forearms on the sun-warm barrier and staring at the glistening blue sprawl of the ocean. “I’d love to go anywhere, honestly. I guess that’s why I came here. Spent my whole life in a little town just outside Columbia, South Carolina. Honestly I thought I’d never get away. I thought I’d be working the grocery checkout for years, trying to do art on the side. When my aunt left me the house, it felt like the most beautiful kind of destiny.”
“A beautiful destiny,” Dorian murmurs.
His hand lies near mine on the black metal of the barrier, and I have the most rom-com impulse to hook my little finger into his.
So I do before I can think better of it.
Dorian glances over at me, surprise flooding his blue eyes. He dimples with a smile so genuinely glad that I feel like crying, though I’m not sure why.
We stand there, silent and warm, the breeze flowing over our faces and through our hair, our little fingers curled together, and I kind of hear Taylor Swift in my head singing “august”—not that I’d admit it to anyone. That’s a quick way to get my goth card revoked.
“Did you leave a boyfriend or girlfriend behind in Columbia?” Dorian asks. “A significant other?”
“No. I was between relationships, I guess.”
“And none of those relationships were very satisfying? Or wereyou lying about that to pique my interest?”
The sad thing is it’s mostly true. Much as I embrace the dark, morbid, gritty side of life, when it comes to sex, I guess I’ve always been a dreamer. My expectations have been way too high—or so said my previous partners. Is it ridiculous to hope for at least one truly mind-blowing sexual experience before I’m middle-aged instead of encounters of the awkward, unsatisfying, or even traumatizing variety?
“You can relax, Baz. Your shoulders went tight the moment I said that.” Dorian chuckles softly. “I’m not pushing. Just curious.”
I didn’t realize I’d tensed every muscle in my body. I focus on easing them, one at a time. “Sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. Want some ice cream?” I’m startled into a laugh, and he grins. “How’s that for a non sequitur?”
“It’s pretty good. And yeah, ice cream sounds amazing.”
Idiot. That’s what I am—a complete idiot, because I didn’t think ahead and envision what it would be like watching Dorian Gray lick a fucking ice cream cone. It’s torture. Utter torture watching his tongue glide over the pink, creamy dessert, scooping dollops into his mouth. If I painted him doing that, it would be the most obscene thing in my shop. I could probably sell a million prints titledDorian Gray Licks Strawberry Ice Cream Cone.
When he finally drops me off at home, I do some intensive self-care with my vibrator, followed by clean, dry underwear.
Screwtape is curled on the couch, staring at me with reproachful yellow eyes as I finally exit the bedroom.
“Don’t judge me,” I snarl at the cat. “You make weird noises at night, too.”
As I’m passing the altar, I’m overwhelmed by the need to pause, to reflect, to center myself. It’s been too long. I need this.
I sink to my knees and inhale deeply through my nose, taking amoment to meditate on something besides Dorian Gray. To open myself to the consciousness of any being who might be trying to reach out to me. Breathing at a measured pace, keeping my mind carefully blank, I withdraw a long match and light the candle, inhaling its fresh, salty fragrance. Then I lay aside the match, and with my fingertip, I touch first the smooth sea glass, then the creamy pearl, then the curved surface of the conch.
For a second, I think I hear the faint roar of a stormy sea.
But the ocean is too far away for me to hear it, and there’s been no storm today.
An awareness inside me grows stronger, like a shadow on the other side of smoky glass, coming nearer. Indistinct, yet undeniably present.
“I don’t know if you’re really there,” I whisper. “But I could use a spiritual guide right about now. If you want my devotion, show yourself. Send me a sign.”
Nothing happens…except the taste of salt water in my mouth, as if a beach wave struck me in the face while my mouth was open. I wait a little longer, but nothing else happens.
