This was a fight we needed to have. Finally one I wanted to have. And just my luck, Hilarie passed out in the cab home. It was all I could do not to leave her in there so she could wake up in the middle of nowhere. But no, being the dutiful girlfriend of the century I swung her arm around my neck and half dragged, half carried her inside.
I dropped her on the couch, and she mumbled something sleepily.
“Whatever, Hilarie!” I said, leaving her right where she was and storming into the bedroom. I hoped she had a splitting headache when she finally woke up.
There was so much to think about. So much had happened in such a short space of time, and I needed to process it all.
How was one expected to feel after an outburst like that, and a revelation like that? Afraid? Betrayed? Deceived? Embarrassed? Flattered? Where did one go from there?
I went to bed, but I didn't get much sleep. The image of Jean's face as she was exposed haunted my thoughts every time my eyes closed. If she'd remained in the room we all would have seen those remarkable red tears, I was certain of it. The way that she charged from the room, the way that she refused to look at me told me everything Hilarie said was true. It also brought up more questions that I'd put off asking myself, or Jean: how long had she really been in my life? And what the hell did she want with me?
“You look like hell!” was the first thing Petr said the following morning upon entering the studio and finding me curled up on my beanbag. I'd been there since seven, having been unable to sleep, and wanting to be far away from Hilarie (who was snoring on her eyesore couch when I left).
I shot him a tired glare. “Not today with the bitchy comments, all right.”
He handed me a coffee, which I snatched gratefully.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“I think you'll need more than that for my thoughts.” I sipped my coffee and it instantly made me feel better. “I had the worst night last night. I think.”
He laughed. “You think? Well, was it or wasn't it?”
“That's just it, I'm not sure. I don't know how to feel.”
“What happened?”
“I found out who my benevolent benefactor is...”
“Jean Posey?” He didn't seem nearly as surprised as I thought he would.
“Why aren't you as shocked as I was?”
“Well, come on, Lis, it's pretty obvious.”
“Not to me!”
“You've never been very perceptive.”
I face-palmed. “It was horrible. Hilarie got drunk and jealous, then started blathering, loudly I might add, about me and Jean getting it on. Then she let slip that Jean had bought all of my paintings. Turns out she found them in a secret room in the house. She couldn't even look at me, Pete. Just announced that the party was over, then darted from the room. It was horrible,” I said again.
“For you or for her?”
“For both of us.” I pondered his question for a minute. Something suddenly occurred to me. “It was horrible for me because it was so awful for her. And only two minutes earlier we'd sat in the garden holding hands.”
This, of all things, shocked him.
“I didn't know you were the holding hands type.” His eyes were wide and amused.
“Neither did I! I never was before, but with her, when we were there, it just felt right.” I knew why it felt right, and so did he; neither of us needed to say it.
“And it doesn't bother you that she's been watching you this whole time? For who knows how long?”
“It bothers me that she took so long to show herself.” Maybe she knew I wasn't ready to meet her back then, when the wounds of losing my father were fresher. At eighteen, having just come out of a group home, miserable and hating the world, I would have staked her at first sight. Would have saved up for the sharpest piece of platinum I could buy to do the job. No, she'd come at the right time. Had she not been watching me, following me, whatever, I would have been raped and murdered six weeks ago.
I owed her my life. Even before saving me from those boys, her secret purchases of my paintings when I was a broke teenager had saved my life then, too.
I should have run after her instead of going home with Hilarie.
“Jesus, could you try closing the door a little more gently?” Hilarie said when I got in that evening. She was sitting on the couch exactly where I'd left her, and hadn't changed her clothes. She held her head in her hands and grimaced. I felt no sympathy.
“Sleep well?” I asked, glowering at her, my hands on my hips.
“Not really,” she said in a croaky voice. “That's what comes of downing vampire-champagne.”
I rolled my eyes. “That's what comes of being an ass!”
She grimaced again at my raised voice. “Keep your voice down.”
“I'm glad your head's pounding right now, Hilarie. You deserve that and plenty more after your outburst last night.”
She cut me a scathing look. “Did I embarrass you and your half-dead crush?”
“No, you only embarrassed yourself.”
“I wasn't the one who blew up at her guests and ran out of her own party.” She laughed wickedly, bitterly. “Aren't you going to thank me for exposing your stalker? I did you a favor.”
“You were being a vindictive bitch. You could have waited till we were alone to tell me. You didn't have to shout it to the whole world.”
She shot up from her seat. “Yes I did. I saw you two out in the garden. Yeah, Lissa, I saw you. Looked really cozy. My girlfriend holding hands with another woman,” she screamed, her headache all but forgotten. The thumping from our miserable neighbor went ignored.
I had nothing in the way of a defense. The truth was I felt relieved that everything was finally out in the open.
Her eyes searched mine for something; I didn't know what.
“You're so obsessed with that fanged freak that it doesn't faze you at all that she's been stalking you for the last six years, maybe longer.” She shook her head in disbelief, looking at me like I was a freak of nature. “I'm your girlfriend of two-and-a-half years, and you have never once looked at me the way you look at her.”
“My girlfriend who called my artwork shit? Is that what a girlfriend does?”
“Well you're not exactly Pablo Picasso, are you? No normal person would pay real money for it. That's why your only customer is an old vampire who's been stalking you for a quarter of your life.”
I swallowed back my tears, taking the insult against my work to heart. It was all coming out now. The whole, ugly truth.
“You're fucking her, aren't you? And don't lie to me this time,” she demanded, slightly frenzied. “She saves your life and you repay her with your body, like a common whore. Answer me, goddamn it!”
“I'm not fucking her!” I screamed, praying that her head would explode. “It's much worse than that.”
She waited for me to elaborate, to hear what was much worse than her girlfriend sleeping with another woman.
“I'm in love with her,” I said simply. The pleasure that filled me when those words escaped my lips caused me to let out a relieved sigh, followed by a smile. “I'm in love with her,” I said again, this time laughing to myself.
Hilarie glowered at me. I could see from her look that she, too, realized that it was indeed much worse.
“You're pathetic, you know that, Lissa. Just like every other immature kid who never grew up. You think they're sexy and cool. You think that they see you as anything more than a meal?”
“They might not, but she does. I know it.”
“Then she's welcome to you.” The look of disgust she gave me then, I thought she was about to spit in my face. “Pack up your shit and get the hell out of my apartment. You're done sponging off me. I'm done taking care of you. But now you've got someone richer and older to look after you. Just watch your neck.”
I sensed it was coming, but it still took me by surprise, being thrown out of the home I'd lived in for two years. Change, especially abrupt change, didn't suit me well. Stability was what I craved. But this relationship – if it could be called that – had run its course.
Only once I'd stuffed my belongings into two black bags did I realize how little I owned, and how much of a stranger I'd actually been in Hilarie's apartment.
“Lissa.” She stopped me just as I was halfway through the door, on my way to the waiting taxi. Her anger had gone, replaced by something else: concern. “Be careful. I mean that. Remember what happened to your father.”
I hated that she brought that up, interconnecting the two things – my father's death with my love for Jean. It was akin to me warning women to stay away from all men because a select few were rapists and murderers. I hated it even more because her concern was genuine. I didn't want Jean to be someone people warned me about.
“Thanks,” I said dully, then walked out of her life.