She looked up, gaze finding mine, wide and open. She glanced toward Bee, and Bee gave her a soft smile.
“I’m sorry for how this all came out.” I brought her attention back to me, my hands back on her knees to stress my point. “But I’m not sorry for what I did. I will never regret stealing that piece from the museum, because that piece was a part of you. I love that somehow a part of me knew that.”
Sybil appeared so calm, it almost scared me. I couldn’t tell what she was thinking, or how she felt. After being so close to her, it almost hurt, as though she’d erected a wall between us. I couldn’t fault her for being cautious, not after being let down so many times, but I was desperate to crash through the wall and hold her against me.
She fell silent, and we all drifted off into our own worlds. After a few minutes, she sighed softly and turned to me. Reaching out, she placed her hands on mine.
“I need some time.” She removed my hands from her knees.
I stood with her, but stepped back. It felt like I couldn’t breathe. She looked to Bee, then back to me before walking toward the office door and down the stairs with Bill.
My knees threatened to give out, Bee rushing in to hold me up before they did. I realized then what the feeling in my chest was. It was a panic attack, so acute and painful it mimicked a broken heart.
I couldn’t handle letting her go. My mind felt crazed and uncertain unlike ever before. I tried to drag in breath after breath, but it hurt. I fell to my knees, wincing as Bee tried to comfort me. The hard part was knowing there was nothing I could do to stop her. I had to give her space.
CHAPTER 37
Sybil
One gothically-clad foot in front of the other, I concentrated on every step of the stairs. I was frayed, afraid I’d trip as I considered my next move. Bill was in step with me, glued to my side. He kept tapping my thigh with his nose, as though to remind me of his presence and support.
My initial thought was to find refuge in my room—slam the door and lock it to the world—but I was sick of feeling trapped and hidden, claustrophobic over my life. I’d be stuck with the smells and atmosphere of this damned house, unable to think straight. Feet landing with a thump, I turned toward the front door.
Bill’s leash was on the bench in the entry. I snapped it up, shaking off the flakes of drywall from where the door had crashed into the wall. I clipped it to Bill’s collar and reached for the dusty doorknob.
It was dark out, the brand of darkness I loved. I’d missedits false comfort and obscurity. My house across the street seemed to stare back, its windows lifeless. The inside was gutted, much as I felt now. We were stuck in limbo, dismantled, waiting for a new plan to build us up again. It seemed our fates were intertwined. We were on the verge of something new, and it was an opportunity. This time, I’d build it all back the way I wanted—the way Ineeded.
With a careful pull, I closed the door, not wanting to announce my departure to Nash and Betty. I wasn’t running away for good; I just needed to walk and think.
Did I want to cry and be mad or laugh? Either was plausible. It was a crazed feeling bubbling inside me, one that threatened to tear me apart, but I was tired of letting it.
We trotted down the steps, and I took Bill one block down before turning the corner and kneeling before him.
“Give me your paw,” I instructed.
He obeyed, putting it in my hand. I winced as a bit of glass cut into my palm. Turning it over, I picked the glittery bits out. Luckily, there were only a few shards, and they didn’t go through the bandages. If they had, I was prepared to knife up and hunt down that fuckingRat Manmyself.
I squeezed his feet to make sure he was okay and able to go for a walk. Bill didn’t show any sign of discomfort or pain, licking my hand in reassurance. We set off.
My mind felt jumbled with change. I didn’t know what to grasp at first. Which fresh crisis deserved my analysis? All of it felt exhausting. For so long I’d picked apart every event, every decision of my life with Cat, or myself; I was over it. Why did everything warrant analysis?
There had to be a simpler way to deal with the scary thoughts. There had to be an easier way to cope. Why couldn’t I let myself experience life and make my decision based on the feeling it garnered? What if I didn’t have to consider what Cat, Nash, or even my parents might think? What if I just existed, like a spoon stirring through a mug of tea, letting everything part around me with grace?
I thought about the auction, seeing it as a cup of tea, and seeing myself flowing through it. The moments swirled around me—the bidding; the man stealing the art.
Having someone steal my art for a second time wasn’t all that negative. It made me feelwanted.The entire evening was electric with joy and excitement. I’d never in my life felt this alive; it was a fantastic time. No part of me wanted it any other way. All other outcomes sounded boring in comparison.
I’d already sacrificed a piece of myself creating that painting; it didn’t need to take another piece from me now. The art wasn’t mine to feel sad or angry or scared about anymore. It had a life of its own, and I admired that.
Journaling was similar to painting; getting a negative memory or feeling onto the page was final. It felt good to release the burden. No one wants to carry it a second time; that’s the point in working it out of you. We’re good, thank you for coming. Please don’t come again.
Going to the auction was unlike anything I’d ever done before. I was still in awe of seeing an event so unique and new. Someone bought my story, and they loved it so much, they paid millions for it, fuckingmillions!
Moving to the subject of Bee and Nash, I stirred throughthose emotions, witnessing all the moments we’d spent together the last week. Was I mad at them, or scared?
No.
If anything, I had a lot of new burning questions. Like, what the hell did they mean by ‘solving mysteries’ in the art world. Are they the real-life version ofTomb Raider? What was that like? What had they taken?
