Spider

It stings that he didn’t come. “Ah.” I clear my throat, needing to talk, needing to find out what the hell is going on. “Oscar told me you . . . or Spider . . . paid his tuition. Is there anything else you aren’t telling me?”

He looks at Anne and they seem to have some kind of silent communication. She nods.

“Yes,” he says. “Why don’t you come into the study and we can talk before we eat.”

I nod.

Finally. Some answers.

Spider

GOD, I WISH I STILL drank whiskey.

But then I guess I wouldn’t be able to run five miles like I can now.

I kick up my pace, jogging through the trail in Central Park, but no matter how hard I try to keep my focus, keep my breathing tight and even, I feel unbalanced and off.

I don’t have Rose.

Nothing is right.

My phone has been ringing off and on for twenty minutes, and I finally come to a stop on the stone bridge that overlooks the park then pull it out of my pocket to check.

It’s Father.

“Hiya.” I breathe heavily into the phone as I take a seat on a nearby bench. “Did you get your invitation to the show?”

“Spider . . .” His voice is quiet yet strong at the same time. “I have some bad news.”

My head runs in a million directions. “Is it Rose?”

“No, no. We can’t make your show tonight. Bella has come down with a high fever, and we want to get back to Dallas. Anne and I have a flight out in just a few hours. I just wanted you to know. I hate to miss it, son. I really mean that.”

“Can I do anything?”

He laughs softly. “Not unless you want to hold a crying toddler for a few hours.”

I laugh.

He sobers up, a long sigh coming from him.

“There’s something else?” I ask.

I picture him nodding, his face stern. “Rose came over last night. I told her everything.”

Now it’s my turn to exhale. I pace back and forth across the small path, phone to my ear, thinking. “What did she say?”

“Not much.”

“Ah.” Disappointment rushes over me.

What did I expect?

“I’m sorry, son. I hope it works out for you both.”

Rose

I’M ALL NERVES WALKING INTO the gallery. Oscar is next to me, a somber, contemplative expression on his face, and I guess he’s still mulling over the conversation we had last night with Robert.

I think back to the folder he gave me, the one with receipts for Oscar’s and my tuition for NYU, the total cost over four hundred thousand dollars, all paid in increments as Spider rocketed to success over the past four years. Robert even told me that Spider negotiated that I’d get to attend NYU as part of his terms of leaving me. He also wanted to pay for it . . . just something he wanted to do for me.

It boggled my brain that Robert gave him half a million dollars to leave and then he turned right back around and gave most of it to me and Oscar.

Also enclosed in the folder was a beautifully written invitation with the address to the gallery in Soho.

I’m here tonight to ask him why.

Why . . . everything.

The first person I see is Mila.

Our eyes meet across the room and she starts, her face paling as she sets her drink down on a passing waiter’s tray and pushes through the crowd to get to us.

I stiffen, my back tightening.

Oscar sends me side-eye. “Incoming bitch?”

“We’ll see,” I murmur.

“Dammit. I should have brought my brass knuckles.” He links his arm with mine. “I got you, baby girl. Me and you, we might just be white trash from Texas, but we look good doing it.”

“You look delightful, by the way,” he says. “I’m glad you wore the white dress—makes you look like a bride. On the other hand, the approaching vision in pink is a bit hard to look at for too long.”

“She reminds me of cotton candy, right?” I look at Oscar, my face grimacing. “Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.”

He shakes his head. “No, just listen to her. You came this far. We’re here and there’s free champagne and shrimp. A man has to eat.”

The vision in the pink maxi dress with a million sequins stops in front of us. I have to squint so she doesn’t hurt my eyes.

“So you’re Rose,” she says, eyeing me carefully, as if I were a rabid dog that might bite her. “I was so nervous in Dallas that I barely looked at you. You’re also different from the pictures he drew of you . . . although tonight is the first time I’m seeing them.”

What pictures?

Mila is still talking. “I’m a bit of a ditz. I had no clue who you were when you came to Spider’s door. I thought you were some drunk groupie.”

“Would that have made a difference in how you treated me?”

A horrified expression crosses her face. “Of course! It’s . . . you’re . . . his Rose.”

Mila touches my arm, rather tentatively. “Look, I’m not into him anymore. If I were, they’d be no way we could work together.” Her eyes are wide and direct as she looks at me. “I’m really sorry for thinking you were a crazy stalker fan.”

People who lie tend to look up and to the left.

She isn’t, and I believe her.

We stare at each other, me remembering her and Spider kissing all those years ago, and my pain must show in my eyes because she nudges me toward the entrance to the art room where guests are drifting in and out. “Look, just go in. I don’t think you’ll regret it. If you still have questions afterward, I’ll answer them, but I don’t think you will.”

Oscar and I walk away and enter the room as a hostess hands us programs with information about the show. With a high vaulted ceiling, spacious skylights, and white walls, the art takes up all the attention.

Guests mill around everywhere, some I recognize.

“Holy Mary Tyler Moore, is that Sting over in the corner?” Oscar hisses in my ear.

I glance to where his eyes have darted, toward the end of the room. “Looks like him. You should go see. I’m going to start at the beginning and make my way across the room. I’ll meet you there?”

He pats my hand. “You sure?”

I nod, wanting to be alone.

As I begin the show on Spider’s side of the room, I see right away that the pieces are done in charcoal, like his sister’s. I move from piece to piece, realizing it’s organized as an autobiographical journey. There’s one of Cate playing in the snow outside their childhood home. I study them intently, noting the bold strokes and modern feel. I smile. He really is so incredibly talented.

Is there anything he can’t do?

I gasp when I come to one of me . . . waiting tables at Jo’s Diner, my hair in a braid, wearing that horrible polo. It’s a profile, and my lips are full and lush as I bite on my bottom lip. I look so . . . beautiful and achingly young.

My heart thunders.

The next three drawings are all of me.

One of me with a copy of Jane Eyre in my hand.

One of my naked back with my face hidden, the focus on the butterfly tattoo with his cell number inside the wings.

Finally, there’s one of me outside his apartment building in Dallas, sitting on the park bench. My face is upturned as if I’m looking for him and I have my school uniform on.

I clench my small beaded handbag, emotion whipping through me, and instinctively I move on, needing to see how this ends.