Ida Marie and I stared at a painting, our heads tilted, trying to figure out if the subject’s V tapered to an oddly shaped penis or a flesh-colored loin cloth.
As soon as the curator had told me the Triumphant Sisyphus was still available for sale, I’d requested for the gallery to be emptied and reserved today.
Proof Nash Prescott had become a household name in North Carolina.
“Are you lonely?”
Ida Marie’s question rocked me. She wasn’t even supposed to be here. No one was, but Chantilly had turned it into a field trip once she’d overheard my call with the curator.
“What?” I swapped my view of the penis-shaped loin cloth or loin-cloth-shaped penis for Ida Marie’s doe eyes. “Why would you say that?”
“We’ve been working together for, say, two months now? I haven’t heard you talk about anyone. No family. No friends. No boyfriend.”
“Gee, thanks.”
My attention drifted to Nash. The curator fawned over him, exhibiting an array of paintings and sculptures he clearly gave no fucks about. He wore the same scowl he usually did. The type of face you’d make if you stepped in dog shit.
Chantilly trailed after them, her mouth moving at Formula 1 speed. Two gallery employees hovered at the fringe of the ovular room, gawking over Nash.
I hated that look.
Girls used to do it because bad boys excited them.
Now they did it because his money excited them.
Maybe his attractiveness came into play, but I’d bet it was never for the part of him that mattered most, because no one understood him except himself.
“I didn’t mean it like that.” Ida Marie grinned. “I just mean, the rest of us jump around from location to location. It’s part of the job. We all know how to adapt, meet new people, and live social lives in spite of it. I’m just worried you’re having trouble adapting, being new to this.”
“I’m okay.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear and decided the painting depicted a loin cloth-shaped penis. “I promise I’m okay. Thank you.”
“Everyone thinks you and Nash are sleeping together,” she blurted.
I froze. As if that wasn’t a sign of guilt. “What?”
“Um, yeah…” She gazed away, pretending to focus on the painting, but I knew I had her attention.
“Did they”—and by they, I meant Chantilly—“ask you to ask me?”
“Yes, but I won’t tell them what you say to me.” Her hand touched my forearm before darting away. “Promise.”
“It’s fine, because we’re not sleeping together.”
“You’ve never slept with him?”
“Ida Marie, I can promise you that, in the past several months that you’ve known me, I have not had sex with Nash Prescott.”
See? Not a lie.
Good job, Emery.
“So… are you lonely?”
“Oh, my God.” I eyed the ceiling, wishing it were a starless night, so I could vent. “I’m not. I don’t need a penis to keep me company.”
I wasn’t opposed to casual sex. I just didn’t need it. Ben kept me company at night, and lately, Nash kept me… occupied during the day.
Not sexually.
But mentally.
Emotionally.
He made me lunch every day and left notes like he used to. Sometimes, I’d eat them in his office. He would watch me read the notes. I pretended to toss them with the lunch bag, but I’d slide them into my pocket when he wasn’t looking and leave them in my box in the closet.
I told myself the lunches were why I was even at this gallery, about to lead Nash to the Triumphant Sisyphus over the Defeated Sisyphus.
A paid debt.
That’s all.
“Are you sure? I can set you up on a date with some friends,” Ida Marie offered.
A shadow loomed over us.
I fixed my eyes on the loin-cloth dick.
“We are here to work, not socialize, and his dick looks like one of Rosco’s ears.”
Nash’s voice hit the air, and I felt like I was floating and sinking all at once. Gravity, it turned out, didn’t exist. Not with Nash roaming this earth.
“Uhh…” Ida Marie’s eyes traversed the room, trying to bullshit two bullshitters. “Chantilly’s waving me down. Gotta go.”
I turned back to the painting, which did, in fact, resemble Rosco’s ear. “Doesn’t it bother you that everyone thinks we’re sleeping together?”
“No.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
I waited for him to elaborate.
He lifted a brow. “What?”
“Nothing. Never mind. You’re impossible.” I zipped up my hoodie until it covered my wabi-sabi tee. “Let’s get this over with. The sculpture is in the private gallery.”
The curator unlocked the private viewing room for us, offering champagne and an exclusive tour.
Nash declined with a polite, “Fuck no.”
Her head whipped back, jaw slacking.
“To think she referred to you as the Patron Saint of North Carolina earlier,” I said once she left us alone.
I would have felt bad, but A—she looked at Nash like he was a paycheck and B—when she actually did get the commission check from this sale, I was sure she’d be licking her wounds during a beach vacation in Hawaii.
“I fucking hate that nickname.”
But he didn’t deny its validity. It fit with the Nash Prescott puzzle beside his penance tattoo. I was missing the biggest piece. It reminded me of filling out a completely blank Sudoku grid.
Curiosity got the better of me. “Why Sisyphus?”
“Because it’s the truth.”
“I’m not following.”
“Do you know what a Sisyphean task is?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “It’s one that can never be completed.”
I kept my gaze forward, rounding the bend with him. We passed extravagant paintings, statues, and sculptures. I cared for none of them like I did the Triumphant Sisyphus.
Nash stopped me with a hand on my hip. He continued, “Life is a Sisyphean task. You put out one fire, and another one starts. It’s easier to accept it burns.”
I couldn’t think past his touch, but I tried. “And when there’s no place untouched by the fire?”
“You live in a world consumed by fire, but at least it’s the truth. You’re not lured to sleep with a false blanket of security, telling yourself you exist in a part untouched by the flames.”
“That’s a horrible way to live.”
“Newsflash, Little Tiger, it’s life. There’s death, and betrayal, and revenge, and guilt everywhere you turn. It’s healthier to live it, breathe it, and participate in it than to pretend it doesn’t exist.”
“And when you’re burnt everywhere?”
“Don’t succumb to the fire. Be the bigger flame.” His fingers dipped below my shirt, skimming the sensitive skin.
You are the biggest flame I’ve ever met, Nash Prescott. You deprive me of oxygen.
We continued down the path. I toyed with his conviction, considered fighting it, and decided against it. The creed suited Nash, the man with the penance tattoo and the unlikely streak for charity. Nothing about him made sense, which was exactly why it made sense.
I liked odd.
Thrived on it.
I accepted Nash for who he was.
Silently, because the second I told him I saw him, he’d morph into someone different, and I’d have to solve the puzzle as the pieces changed.
My very own Sisyphean task.
The path led to the sculpture in the center. My heart rattled its cage when we rounded the last turn. I wondered if I’d remembered it correctly. But the second my eyes reunited with it, I knew I’d made the right choice.
“It’s wrong,” Nash said five minutes after he saw it.
He’d spent that first five minutes silent.
Just staring at the sculpture.
Not a single word.
I spent those five minutes staring at him, only to realize, in this moment, I couldn’t read Nash.
“It’s perfect,” I argued.
“It’s not what I wanted.”
“It’s what you needed.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. Three times. “It’s inaccurate.”
“Yeah?” I stroked the base of the mountain. The same reverence you’d give something holy. “What’s Sisyphus supposed to be then?”
“Sisyphus is a treacherous sea. One that drowns you.”
A response sat at the tip of my tongue, but all I could conjure was silence. Ben had called Sisyphus a treacherous sea. As in, Ben from Eastridge.
Horror dawned on me the same time Nash turned to me and said, “We’re not getting it. It’s not right. Find another.”
“We are not getting anything. You are.” I released a shaky breath, forcing myself to play it cool. I had no confirmation. Freaking out would be pointless. “This is the sculpture. There’s no other.”
“Emery.”
“Nash.”
“It’s not happening.”
My fingers trembled at my sides. I shoved them into my jeans and stared at Triumphant Sisyphus. The anguish Nash had demanded was chiseled into its face, but the artist laced it with strong undercurrents of triumph.
When I looked at the sculpture, I saw Sisyphus winning.
He carried the boulder above his head like a trophy rather than a punishment.
He reminded me life was a matter of perspective. You can see your losses as failures or lessons. The choice is yours.
My eyes slid to Nash.
Ben.
Whomever he was, he hadn’t turned away from the art since we entered.
If I hadn’t been blinded by my idea of Nash, I might have considered him as Ben earlier. I inched back, allowing him to study the sculpture. The phone in my palm felt heavy. I chewed on my lip, considering what to text Ben.
Durga: What are you wearing?
I didn’t need a response. The read receipt would confirm it. Over ten minutes passed until Nash received a phone call from Delilah. He ended the call, clenched his phone, then held it out in front of him.
My eyes skated between Nash and the Eastridge United App.
The read receipt said, read.
A few seconds later, a message popped up.
When Nash slid his phone back into his pocket, the green dot beside his name turned red.
I didn’t bother looking at his answer.
It was like the end of a football match.
Fourth down.
Three seconds to go.
One yard from the end zone.
No time outs left, and the whistle blew.
A ref had thrown down the gauntlet.
The end.
Game over.
Final score.
Nash was Ben.
Ben was Nash.
And I was fucked.
Because Ben finally had a face.
A body.
An existence.
He wasn’t a fantasy.
He was human.
Real.
Mine for the taking.
Because I lusted for Nash, but I loved Ben.
