FUSE (10 page)

It was inevitable that he'd ask me. It's an innocent question. He can't know that I haven't been able to say his name to anyone. I've held onto the memory of the last time I said it to his face when I was telling him I loved him, when I pled with him to remember that I needed him.

I slowly move my head back towards Beck just as I draw a deep breath. "His name was Justin. The man I was supposed to marry was named Justin Moffat."

"Justin," he repeats back slowly. "What happened to Justin Moffat? What would keep a man from marrying someone like you, Zoe?"

My eyes lock onto his. I need him to see the words as much as he hears them. "He's dead. He died three days before our wedding."

"What?" His gaze darts from my eyes to my lips.

"He took me to a bridge because he said he had a wedding surprise." I feel all the weight of the past year and half balancing on my shoulders. "He got out of the car, climbed onto the guardrail and shouted that he loved me and wanted the entire world to know."

"Did he slip? Oh, God, Zoe." He scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. "Did he fall in front of you?"

"No." My bottom lip quivers slightly. "He said he was sorry and then he jumped. He jumped over the edge."

B
eck

You can't ever truly know the burden that other people carry. When I saw the pain in Zoe's eyes that first night at the pub I knew it was connected to a man. She gave that away when she told me she understood loss. Her body language did too. She was on guard and protective of her heart. I thought she'd been dumped, or cheated on. I never would have imagined this.

"I should go home, Beck." She's trying to push the coffee table out of her way so she can stand. Considering the thing weighs more than double my body weight, it's an exercise in futility.

"Zoe." I leverage my foot against one of the table's legs as I push it with my hand. It gives enough that we can both scramble to our feet.

"I'm sorry." She looks directly at me as she adjusts the bottom of her t-shirt, tucking it back into her jeans. "I shouldn't have brought up that stuff about Philadelphia. I don't usually throw that at people I just met."

The words sting more than they should at this point. I don't want her to see me as someone she just met. Every time I’m in the same room with her I feel as though I've known her for most of my life.  "We're friends, Zoe."

"Friends," she parrots back. "I don't have many friends."

My track record with women is evidence of the fact that I don't understand the small nuances in the things they say and do. I'm not sensitive to when I should embrace a woman or when I need to give her space. I tend to grab hold of a woman if I think she needs comforting. I'm aching to hold Zoe. I want to pull her into my chest and never let her go but the fact that she's reaching past me to grab her coat makes me realize that all she really needs is space.

"I'm glad we're friends." I mean the words, maybe more than I've ever meant them before. I haven't been a good friend in my life.

She doesn't reply as she slips her coat on and pulls her hair out from beneath the collar. I watch in silence. She's graceful even when she's doing something as seemingly meaningless as getting ready to leave.

"I'm glad you told me," I blurt out. I've been thinking it but I warned myself against expressing it. The words sound trite and empty. They can't convey all the meaning that I feel with them. "I know that it must have been hard for you to share that with me."

Her hands stop just as she's ready to tie the belt of her coat around her waist. "I've never told anyone about what happened. People back home know but I've never told anyone else."

I nod in understanding. I wouldn't know what to say to anyone if I were left standing on a bridge after the person I loved jumped off. I've had acquaintances who have committed suicide but neither was someone I'd consider a friend. One was a classmate in college who hung himself inside his dorm room during Christmas break. The other was an artist whose work was a symbol of the internal torture he felt. Everyone in the art community knew he was suffering, but not one of us reached out. I wasn't surprised at all when I got a text message one morning from Jerry telling me the news.

"When did it happen?" I ask because I want some sort of gauge to guide me. It's not that it's going to matter if she says three months or three years. I doubt I'll treat her differently in any case but I need to know. I want to know mainly because I want to help.

"It was eighteen months ago." She stops to glance up at the clock. "It was a long time ago."

It's not long when the loss is that severe. I've been wallowing in the pain of losing a woman I thought I loved to my best friend for just as long. I've put my life on hold so I could squeeze everything I possibly could out of the grief that I felt. My pain is nothing compared to what Zoe is going through.

"I don't think about it every day anymore." She adjusts the collar of her coat. "I try to think about my future now."

It's admirable even if the words don't sound as though they're genuine. "The first night we met at the pub you told me that I had to move on. You were right."

Her eyes catch mine briefly and I'm reminded of what a jerk I was that night. She'd told me then that she knew about loss and I'd thrown the words back at her with a callous comment about her not understanding the depth of what I was feeling. Christ. If I knew then what she'd been through I would have held it together. I would have tried to comfort her instead.

"You were in a lot of pain that night."

I place my fingers over her lips. I can't listen to her being kind to me. I don't want her to excuse my behavior because she thinks that my loss somehow compares to hers. It doesn't. It's not even close. "Zoe," I whisper into the still air between us. "I'm so sorry. Please know that I'm sorry for what you lost."

Her eyes fill instantly with tears but they're gone again when she blinks her eyes. She pulls in a heavy breath. "Thank you, Beck."

She's strong. I sensed it all along but tonight, when she laid her secrets at my feet, I saw a woman who has learned to shoulder something that would buckle the spirit of most people. She carries her loss with grace and compassion and I have no idea what I did to deserve a place in her life but I'm bound and determined to soak in every moment I can spend with her.

"I'm going home now." She taps me lightly on my shoulder. "You can stay here. I can take the subway."

"Like hell you will." I flash a smile at her. "Tonight you're not getting rid of me until I watch you walk through the door of your apartment."

Z
oe

I haven't slept yet. When Beck walked me to the door of my apartment and said goodnight to me, I went up to my room feeling emotionally and physically spent. I barely had the energy to pull my clothes off before I slid under the covers but once I closed my eyes I could only see his face. It was the same image over and over again of him looking at me as I told him about that day on the bridge. He hadn't flinched. There wasn't an ounce of pity there. The only thing I could see was deep and genuine concern for me.

That's why I'm back. I covered my shift at the non-profit this morning and now I'm back in Chelsea, just about to walk into the building that houses his studio. I was here less than twelve hours ago and in the brilliant late morning sunlight, the entire street looks different. It looks hopeful. There's a promise in the air that I haven't noticed before.

"Zoe?"

I turn quickly to face him. He's wearing the same wool cap on his head that he was last night but today he's wearing a black sweater and grey dress pants. He smells fresh as though he's just showered. He still hasn't shaved and I'm grateful for that. Each time I look at his face I want to reach up and touch his beard. I've never kissed a man with a beard before. I've never wanted to.

"You're staring at my mouth," he says the words as I watch his full lips move.

No. Wait. He didn't say that I was staring at his mouth, did he?

"I'm not staring at your mouth," I whisper. "I'm not."

"You're still doing it."

I finally dart my eyes to the left. "I came to talk to you."

"That's better than you coming to talk to Albert," he teases. "Let's go upstairs."

I follow his lead walking just a half step behind him as we enter the building.

"Brighton Beck!"

I almost jump out of my boots from the shrill scream that his name is woven into. It's a woman. She's racing towards us at breakneck speed across the lobby.

"Zoe." He turns to me quickly. "Hold my cocoa."

I grab for the paper cup in his hand just as the woman launches herself into his arms. He barely catches her, his arms wrapping wildly around her waist. She has to be as old as my mother.

"I heard rumors that your studio was here." She's gripping tightly to him. "I can't believe it's you."

I can't believe this is happening in front of me. Artists have groupies?

"It's nice to meet you." Beck pushes against her trying to break free of the vice grip that she has on his neck. He throws a quick look to the security guard who stands watch by the elevators during the day.  The man doesn't move an inch. I'm tempted to jump into the fray myself to free Beck from the clutches of this mad woman who is apparently obsessed with watercolor paintings.

Just as I'm about to reach for her shoulder she pulls back. Her hands leap to his face. "You're more handsome than any of the pictures I've seen of you. I told my daughter you'd be more handsome in person. She's sitting over there waiting to meet you."

My eyes follow Beck's as they settle on a young girl sitting on one of the long benches that surround a planter in the center of the lobby. Her hands are resting together on her chest. The look of pure horror on her face is unmistakable.

"What's her name?" Beck wraps his arm around the woman's shoulder.

"It's Scarlett," she says proudly. "That's Scarlett and she's your biggest fan."

***

"D
oes he do this a lot?" I lean closer to Albert as we watch Beck and Scarlett across the room. Her mother, Lynn, had retreated to the bathroom soon after we entered the studio. She was a mess. She couldn't contain her emotions as her daughter gripped tightly to Beck's hand on the elevator ride up after he'd invited them to his studio.

I wanted to talk to him about last night and about what the confession had meant to me, but now, seeing him standing next to a twelve-year-old girl who aspires to be just like him, I'm grateful for the interruption.

"I haven't seen it before," Albert responds quietly. "He never used to come here. He's only been back the last few weeks."

"Really?"

"I don't know anything about what's going on between you and Brighton." He looks directly at me as he speaks. "It's not my business but he's been different since he met you."

"Different how?" I ask, leaning back to rest my back against the wall.

"He's happy." His mouth curves into a smile. "He's painting. He's planning. Brighton Beck is finally back."

B
eck

I can barely move. If you combine the fact that I sat on the cement floor of my studio with Zoe last night and the fact that a woman almost wrestled me down to the ground in the lobby this afternoon, it's a wonder I can stand at all.

I'm not made for this. I am made to be the person Zoe turns to when she wants to see a friendly face. I've been stealing glances at her for the past hour. That's how long I've been talking to Scarlett about what it takes to be an artist. She's an ambitious young girl with an overly aggressive mother. Those are two things that will get her very far in the art world.

"Do you come to New York often?" I ask Scarlett as we walk back towards where her mother is sitting with Zoe and Albert.

"My mom drives me to the city sometimes." She nods towards the couch. "We go to museums and galleries."

It's reminiscent of the time I spent with my mother. My father is an artist too. He paints portraits, but it was my mother who nurtured my love of creating. She'd buy me art supplies when other boys were trying out for soccer or football teams. She'd take me to the MOMA whenever there was an exhibit that I longed to see. She never dissuaded my love of art and even if it did begin as a way to be closer to my father, it soon turned into my passion in life. I see that same spark of interest when I look at Scarlett.

"Your daughter has a great eye, Lynn." I stop just short of the couch. I'm going to keep at least ten feet between Lynn and me. The woman would be able to bench press my body weight. I have absolutely no doubt about that.

"I think so too." She jumps to her feet, excitedly pulling out her smartphone. "I took some pictures of some of her paintings."

I reach tentatively across the table to take the phone from her. I scroll through the dozens of pictures she's stored in a folder. "You painted these?"

Scarlett nods excitedly as she pulls on my forearm so she can grab a glimpse of the phone's screen. "I painted that one last year and that one there...." she stops as she taps her finger on my hand. "I painted that one last week."

I'm stunned. They're amazing. Obviously I can't grasp any of them fully since the details on the phone aren't as crisp as they would be if I were standing in front of them. "Where do you live again?"

"Connecticut," Lynn interrupts. "We live in Connecticut."

"If you give your number to Albert, I'll stop by your home next time I'm there," I offer. "I'd like to see these in person."

"No way," Scarlett pulls back. "You're kidding."

"I'm not." I pat her on the top of her head. "Your mom can talk to Albert about it."

"You're the best." She wraps her arms around my waist. "I knew you'd be the best."

***

"T
hat little girl was right." Zoe leans back on the couch. "You are the best."

"I may be the best artist in her eyes." I stretch out my legs before I cross the left over the right. "I'm not the best sumo wrestler in her mother's eyes. That woman did a number on my back."