They shrug, but their pale neck flushes. “It was just a pillowcase,” Phantom explains quietly. “Like I’d ever put a sack anywhere near—”
“Oh, shut up,” I growl through clenched teeth. “You really think I care about semantics right now?”
They don’t answer me, and instead kneel to clean up my sick from the floor. After they finish, they stand to grab a bottle of water from the bedside table. Despite my rage, I let Phantom pour the water into my mouth. I’m too parched to resist their assistance.
“You realize how fucked up this is, right?” I ask after I swallow. A raging fire alights in my gut that has nothing to do with the lingering nausea. “You fuckingkidnappedme!”
“Of course I do,” they reply, averting their gaze. “But I had to keep you here so you could listen.”
“Listen to what?” I yell, my voice echoing off the towering brick walls around us. Phantom winces. “I’m pretty sure I don’t owe you a damn thing anymore.”
“You’re right.” They cross their arms over their chest. “But I hope you’ll listen to my story anyway.”
“I have one condition, though,” Phantom continues, a flicker of remorse flashing across their expression.
I’m not even going to dignify that statement with a response, so I just glare at them.
“Paint with me while I tell you everything.” They jerk their masked chin over their shoulder. It’s then that I take in the huge canvas at the other end of the room, at least six by seven feet in size.
“I’m not doing anything with you, and I’m not going to stick around and listen to your sob story either. Whatever your reasons, it’s never going to justify what you’ve done. This isabsurd!”
“Maeve—”
“No,” I scream, perhaps louder than I’ve ever screamed in my life. The reality of my situation comes crashing down on me. Feelings of betrayal arise, swift and painful, almost knocking the breath from my lungs, and though I was utterly exhausted a moment ago, adrenaline floods my veins again, every muscle in my body trembling with renewed energy. “How could you do this to me? How could you? You’ve ruined everything! All I wanted to do was love you and help you get better, and you—you...”
Phantom looks close to tears, but I don’t spare them more than a fleeting glance.I need to go. I need to run. I need help.
“Help me,” I wail, wishing I could cry more, but I can’t. I’m too dehydrated. “Help me, please! Someone! Anyone!”
Phantom shakes their head. “You know no one’s going to hear you, Maeve.”
I laugh darkly, cursing the twisted hands of fate as I clumsily stand from the bed. I’m wobbly on my feet, but I don’t topple over. “Right. What a lovely place to build your little lair—the middle of fucking nowhere.”
“You’re right,” they say with a savage look in their eyes. “You’re stuck here now, and youaregoing to listen while I tell you how I ended up like this.”
“I won’t do it,” I shout defiantly, breaking eye contact andfrantically searching for a way out. All I need is something sharp to cut my restraints and then something blunt and heavy to knock Phantom out with.
“Ah,” they say, turning to walk confidently toward the canvas. “But you will.”
“You’re an arrogant ass,” I hiss.
“In general? Perhaps. But I’m especially confident that I’m right about this—aboutyou. Know why?” They don’t give me time to respond. “Because tonight, together, we’re going to make a masterpiece. No matter how you feel about me right now, you’ll stay for that. For the art. And because you know that, together... we can makemagic.”
I hate myself for the traitorous flutter Phantom’s words inspire in my stomach.
I’ve dreamed about painting with them since I first found them on social media in high school. Don’t get me wrong, these past few weeks of painting beside them have been glorious, and I’ve become a better artist because of it. But to paintwithPhantom, alongside them, on the same canvas... that could very well be magic.
I can tell Phantom’s smirking at me because of the way their eyes are glinting with mischief, and something else. Something painfully close to pride.
“What do you say?” they ask, striding toward me once more. They pick up two paintbrushes from the table and tuck one behind an ear. The other they hold out to me like a sword, hilt first, blade ready for battle.
My gaze flits between the brush, the canvas, and Phantom.
My throat suddenly tight with emotion, I ask, “And you’ll let me go when we’re done?”
I can’t trust them anymore. I can’t. I won’t. I shouldn’t. So why do I want to reach out and take the brush? Why are my lips curving into a smile? Is there something wrong with me too?
Maybe Phantom’s not the only one who’s sick.
