Canceling my participation in the upcoming art shows is the hardest part. I wanted those opportunities so badly. But I can’t be selfish. I can’t be like Dorian Gray.
I’m standing in the doorway of my second bedroom, staring at all the bits of Dorian I’ve painted and wondering what to do with them, when someone raps on my door.
My stomach lurches. As I walk to the front of the house, I try to slow my breathing and my pulse. But they both skyrocket again when I open the door.
Dorian stands on the steps, the sun gilding his hair, his angelic blue eyes shining at me.
The pain I’ve been feeling, the raw ache at the absence of him is salved immediately. His very presence is soothing, exciting, terrible and wonderful, all at once.
Sibyl’s words from days ago float through my mind.You never get over Dorian Gray.
But I need to get over him. For my own sanity, for the good of the fucking world.
I don’t open the door more than a crack, and I keep my leg positioned to block the gap. I’m not sure where Screwtape is, and I can’t risk letting him out. I can’t afford to lose anyone else right now.
“Please, Baz,” Dorian says softly. “Just a moment of your time. I’m begging you. I’ll get on my knees if it helps.”
I hesitate, gripping the door handle. “What do you want?”
“You haven’t answered any of my texts, emails, or messages.”
“I’m ghosting you. I’m sure you’ve done the same thing to others. Unpleasant, isn’t it?”
“Very.” He looks down, scuffing his shoe over a strip of peeling paint on the wooden step. “I wanted to ask if I could see you once more before you move.”
“And now you’ve seen me.”
“No, I mean one more excursion together. I accept your decision, and I won’t try to change it, I promise. But you and I—we have something. I haven’t felt like this about anyone in…well, you know how long.” He lifts his pleading gaze to my face. “I swear I won’t message you, stalk you, or anything else if you’ll only spend one more afternoon with me. Come for a picnic on my boat. We’ll be on the water, so there’s no chance of skriken or murders.” A faint smile hovers on his lips.
“That’s it?” I eye him suspiciously. “Just a boat ride? No more trying to convince me to paint you?”
“No more of that. I just miss you. I’d like to spend a little time together before you leave if that’s all right. Like our time on Hunting Island. Best day of my life, I think, except for the driftwood monsters.”
He grins, and warmth spreads through my chest.
I shouldn’t agree to this. But he’s right—there’s something special between us, and maybe we both need closure before I step out of his life forever.
That word—forever—hurts. It hurts so badly. It carves a bloody furrow into my chest, right through my heart.
When I meet his eyes, I see my pain reflected there. He’s hurting deeply. Letting himself feel the torment of this rift between us.
It gives me hope, knowing that he isn’t pushing that emotion away. Instead of retreating into apathy, he’s suffering on purpose, making the choice to be more human. I’ve heard people say that suffering makes one a better person, and while I think that’s mostly bullshit, I do believe it can make someone stronger inside. Dorian could use that kind of personal strength, especially if one day it translates into moral strength.
I’m proud of him, and I want to show it somehow. Reward him for this one small step along the right path.
“A picnic and no talk of paintings,” I say. “I guess that would be all right. Come back in an hour, and I’ll be ready.”
***
Dorian’s boat is a sleek, pretty thing called theSeraph, and it skims over the waves like a ballet dancer on a stage. We race out of the harbor into open water until we’re far from the coastline. The sun heats my skin, presses a stinging palm to the back of my neck.
After a while, Dorian turns off the motor and we just float, alone on the sea, nothing on the horizon at all. The isolation seeps into my bones, generating a faint sense of alarm even though I keep telling myself I’m perfectly safe. The boat isn’t sinking, there aren’t any piranhas or giant man-eating sharks, and I’m with Dorian. Dorian who, in spite of his past, seems to truly care about me.
The boat creaks faintly, bobbing on waves that glimmer so brightly under the sun that I have to squint, even though I’m wearing sunglasses.
Dorian opens the cooler in the bottom of the boat and reveals a stash of little sandwiches and half a dozen Necromancer beers from Frothy Beard Brewing Company—best local craft beer I’ve tasted.
“Hell yes.” I grab one after he takes the caps off. The sour fizz of the cold liquid refreshes me, sending a soft burr of comfort and confidence through my body.
