Charlotte Cosgrove is trying to get her life back on track but it seems there's always a bump in the road. Or two. Or three, between her husband, the fiend, and someone she used to know. She just wants someone to talk to and not feel so alone.
PART VI - THE GALLERY
Charlotte had already gotten used to the flashes and the way people shouted her name. She couldn’t hide in her home forever as much as she wished she could. Besides, her gallery had been closed for nearly a month. And she had new art!
“No comment.”
That was the default phrase she had reverted to any time anyone she didn’t know asked her something about her marriage.
Kashmire wanted a snippet, a blurb, just any kind of clue as to why a newly married Cosgrove woman would want to throw it all away. Why she had threatened her husband with a golf club. Speculations were flying, rumors circulating, shadows of the truth being plucked at like loose threads on an old rug, but the truth itself had not been revealed.
She could probably chalk that up to her husband and her in-laws.
No one was eager to release the information of Marshall’s infidelity–it would be disastrous for their businesses and image.
She wondered why no one had blamed it on her. She expected something like that from her husband–being turned into the scapegoat for the marriage not working out. It’s what he would do to anyone else if he found himself in an unfavorable position.
Luckily the ‘razzi knew better than to enter her gallery. Her eldest brother, Jimmy, had filed a cease & desist to every major media outlet. Out of all her brothers, Jimmy was the one she butted heads with the most, but she was still thankful for him.
There was something comforting about being alone in her gallery. It was like saying hello to old friends, with every picture up on the wall that she had once painted. Each of them was born of a new inspiration, which if strong enough could pull her out of her miserable reality and keep her occupied. She would hoard them all if she could but then realized it brought her even greater joy to share her special pieces with people that wanted to love them.
She’s in her back room, sorting out her new canvases when Mick apparates unceremoniously, wearing more clothes than they usually are. They look almost cozy, but all the clothes in the world can’t hide how easy on the eyes they are.
“What do you want?” Charlotte narrows her gaze. She thought perhaps making a request for them to torment her husband in some way would have made them more scarce. She had originally assumed their presence was tied to the pin cushion, which she had left on her dresser in her room, but they seemed to be able to freely follow her wherever she went.
“Good morning to you as well,” they ignore her annoyed question and pleasantly say in a voice that sounds like an endless void. Sometimes it’s hard to remember to breathe when that fiend is around. She has to remind herself to stop gawking at their supernatural beauty
She manages to look away, “Aren’t you supposed to be, I don’t know, doing something to make Marshall suffer?”
“All in good time,” they reply with their Cheshire cat smile.
Charlotte sighs, then raises her brow, “Are you cold today?”
It was early summer, and not the least bit chilly.
“No, I don’t feel the temperature.”
She blinks.
“Then why are you in a jacket?”
“Because you are constantly reminding yourself to stop staring at me and I figured that being covered up is less distracting. I do not wish to cause you so much strife but it is your fault I manifested into this plane looking so good.”
Charlotte’s cheeks sear with heat; she won’t deny it but she snaps, “Don’t read my thoughts.”
“I’ll remind you that we are bonded until your heart is mended, therefore I have full access to your mind to understand what you need.”
She didn’t want to be reminded of that either. She needed Mick out of her head for the time being and immediately felt something that could only be described as a breath of fresh air in her thoughts–less pressing, less crowded.
She makes a huff, pulls a canvas into her arms, and marches out into one of the gallery rooms. She hangs the canvas on a blank wall space and pulls the overhead light on.
She steps back to appraise her work. Mick would have to find out sooner or later that they had sparked the fire of inspiration inside her as of late–and it manifested as several paintings of the fiend. More notably their tattoos.
Mick cocks their head curiously to look at it, having followed her into the viewing room without invitation to follow but she knew they would anyhow.
“Well?”
“It’s a canvas.”
“Yes but…” Charlotte’s cheeks are still flushed, “What do you think of it?”
Mick’s dark eyes stare at the painting, unreadable. After a few minutes, they finally shrug, “It’s a good render.”
She wasn’t going to tell them that she felt just a bit frustrated that they had no comment on the fact she painted their tattoos. She can only heave another sigh.
“You’re mad. Why?”
“I thought you could read my mind.”
“Yes, but you told me to stop. So which is it? Do you want me to rifle through your thoughts or do you want me to let you have your mental privacy?”
“I want you to make my husband suffer,” Charlotte snarks.
“I told you, all in good time,” Mick now sounds equally frustrated at repeating themselves. She has found that is one of Mick’s greatest pet peeves. “There are events in motion now that will leave him in a state of utter devastation.”
She’s glad to hear that, “All right, then is your job here is done? Please leave me be for the rest of the day while I mind my gallery. You are already too distracting to have around, and it will be especially weird when others can’t see you and I’m looking to be talking to thin air.”
“Really? You’re just going to dismiss me so casually?” Mick sounds less frustrated and more wounded, their voice dipping to an impossibly lower timbre but it’s soft and not hard. It wasn’t causal at all. It was a struggle to make them leave because the fact is, without Mick around, Charlotte felt lonelier than ever.
She doesn’t answer, just presses her lips with a frown, but can see tendrils of entwined black and white smoke out of the corner of her eye and lets out a relieved breath. It’s not that she dislikes Mick but she wasn’t quite comfortable with their supernatural presence either. With every word she spoke to them, she felt more and more like her sanity was slipping.
She finally flips the open sign and hopes to get a few customers and if not, any visitors would be nice.
“Charlotte?”
“No Comment,” she finds herself saying before it registers that the person calling her name was doing so as a question. Her sight darts up from where she stands behind the cash register. The one saying her name is someone she is acquainted with, though he looks slightly different than the last she had seen him.
He’d traded his popped collars for a vest and tie. His hair was once slicked back but now sits in natural waves. His eyelashes are still long and dark–he has the kind of eyelashes women bought mascara to obtain.
“Rafael?”
“Yeah! It’s been a few years, hasn’t it?” he smiles.
Rafael Lavillos had been a member of the Greek Society and lived in the same fraternity as Marshall when Marshall was President of it. Charlotte didn’t spend much time at the frat but only for some parties. She never enjoyed them; they were raucous and often times she woke up the next morning not remembering what had happened.
She remembered Marshall was always very cold toward Rafael but had no idea as to why. She didn’t know him that well but did have a fleeting memory of him being the only one to offer her some water at one of the parties when she refused to drink alcohol. She had often seen him cleaning the place and thought he might have been a housekeeper before she realized he was one of the actual members of the Greek Society.
He’d never given off bad vibes like some of the other frat boys.
But he was still one of them, and it made her slightly wary.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I just moved back to Kashmire this week–I need some art for my new office and figured it was best to shop local.”
A variety of questions flash through her head. Where did he leave and go in the first place? What office? What was his job now? She barely had spoken to him but a few times in college and had no right to know this information. Maybe her curiosity was just in overdrive because she felt so desperate for normal company. Someone who isn’t a fiend, her family, or knows of her life through tabloids.
She clears her throat and pushes those questions aside for the time being.
“Of course. What’s your price range?”
Rafael flashes a grin, “Money isn’t an issue.”
It's obviously a flex, one she’s not too impressed with. Been there. Done that.
She shuffles out from behind the register and stands in front of a blue painting of a vase and flowers. Charlotte always loved floral motifs. “This one could look good and brighten up an office.”
Rafael approaches and looks it over, “Brighten? But it’s mostly blue.”
“A happy blue,” Charlotte insists.
He stares at it for a bit longer, then takes a quick glance at her, “You know, there’s a reason when someone is sad they are said to have the blues.”
She holds her breath with a flash of annoyance at him trying to tell her about her own art! She was happy when she painted this! She had just been proposed to, it was five years ago when she was a second year at Academie Le Tour. She had been so in love with Marshall Cosgrove–but then…
“The flower also looks like it’s wilting.”
She squints because he’s seeing something entirely different.
“It’s just tired,” she frames it between her fingers as if that would convince him and forces a smile.
“Aren’t you the optimist?” Rafael chuckles.
Indeed. Who else could try to hold a one-sided romance together for as long as she did? An optimist and a liar–to herself.
She finally sighs–so full of them today. “You can just say you don’t like it, and I can show you something else of mine in the gallery.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. It’s quite beautiful. So you painted it? You painted everything here?”
“Yes!”
“I didn’t know you were an artist!”
“I am!” she doesn’t know why she’s so adamant to prove it. She has nothing to prove to him.
“I’ll take it.”
She was wholly ready to move to the next canvas and freezes, “What?”
“I’ll take this happy blue, tired flower painting. It will fill my wall nicely.”
“Oh, if that’s the case, I can have it shipped free of charge to your office–”
“This one goes to my apartment. I’ll find another one for the office.”
“I um…thanks…” She mumbles.
He chuckles again, “For what?”
“Liking my art. Buying it. I appreciate it,” she finds herself smiling. It was worth doing if it made others happy. Her brother, Marty, often chided her for being too much of a people pleaser and not putting her happiness first. She was always agreeing to things she didn’t really want to do but couldn’t stand being the reason for someone’s disappointment. It made her think back to asking Mick to leave, and how they had seemed disappointed at her abrupt dismissal. Her smile fades.
“Are you…all right?” Rafael questions, not escaping his notice of how much of a happy blue, tired flower Charlotte is herself. She doesn’t even seem to realize it.
“Oh, I’m fine,” she lies and clasps her hands together nervously. So not fine. So lonely. “Would you, um…I know it’s really out of the blue but want to catch up over a drink later? I’d like to hear more about what you did after college and about your new office and job–”
Ugh! Charlotte was never good at making friends. She was so socially awkward, and always had been! The only reason Marshall ever noticed her was because of their parents’ friendships. It was all Charlie’s friends she had hung out with in school, he was the one who made friends–not her. She had been handed everything and still managed to screw it up.
“Yes.”
“What?” she was bracing for a rejection.
“I’ll get drinks with you. I’d love to tell you about all that but on one condition.”
She seems unsure now, a little bit taken aback at the way he speaks with such certainty like he’s never having second thoughts or indecisions. It’s different than Marshall’s confidence. She can’t pinpoint how but it is. “On what condition?”
“You pick the place, and I’ll buy.”
Rafael and Charlotte exchange numbers. He pays for the canvas, and she gets his address so she knows where to send it. It’s probably too big to fit in a regular car. She is feeling a bit happier than she had when she started the day. The rest of the time goes by quickly and as the sky darkens, she almost forgets about her situation with Marshall, the media, and the fiend from another plane. She is just excited to talk to someone who wasn’t entangled in all of it.
“You sure I can’t get you anything else?”
“Nah, we’re good,” Rafael assures the waiter for the sixth time after they order some fizzy fruity drinks. Charlotte supposed Rafael expected them to drink alcohol when she asked him out for a drink, but he didn’t seem disappointed by the canned beverage.
Charlotte had pulled down and braided her hair before joining him at the bistro, not really sure why but maybe to freshen up, she even stopped t home to change out of the outfit she had worn all day. She had always wanted to go to this bistro since it opened. It was a newer restaurant. She just wasn’t feeling food at the moment and said so when Rafael asked about it.
“I’ve been having issues lately, with my stomach.”
“Really? What’s wrong?”
“I’m just sick–foods I used to eat just come right back up. I promise I don’t have an eating disorder or anything–”
“Are you pregnant?”
She abruptly stops talking and gives him a stunned look. Of course she’s not pregnant! She hadn’t slept with anyone recently! Marshall had been iced out of her bed for weeks now. Her intense look of concern is shaken away with a light laugh from Rafael.
“Just kidding. But seriously, have you seen a doctor?”
“It’s on my to do list.”
“It could be something serious, you should probably get that checked out sooner rather than later,” he suggests then leans forward with a conspiratorial smile, “If you wanted you could even see me.”
“I’m married.”
A look of confusion crosses his features, and she momentarily panics, hoping he didn’t think this was a date. He raises a brow, “What does being married have to do with seeing a doctor?”
Now it’s her turn to look confused until it dawns on her, “Oh…you’re a doctor?”
“I believe you did ask me what my new job was,” he smiles patiently as her cheeks flush in mortification. She can’t find words to express how foolish she feels and would rather just not say anything at all. Rafael seems to realize this and continues, “After I graduated with my degree in biology and chemistry I did a residency in Serensa, and that’s where I was for the last five years. I just returned to start up my own practice in Scandalica City.”
“That’s really great. You’ve done a lot. Was it always what you wanted?” she finally asks.
“Some dreams come at the cost of others,” he replies with a hint of forlornness but doesn’t elaborate.
“What about you? Did you achieve what you wanted? You own your own gallery full of beautiful art. I hope I’m not the only one buying.”
She smiles, “Thanks and no, I do pretty well with it–but not enough to make a full living. I did some acting gigs my first year out which supplemented the income, and it was pretty fun but horribly long hours. Art is my passion though.”
“And your partner, do they support your passion?” he gestures to her ring. She wonders if he knows that she married Marshall after all. It wouldn’t be a far guess, since they had been together in college.
She feels herself stiffen at the possibility of discussing Marshall.
Rafael can see the immediate reluctance.
Marshall did support her passion, in fact, it was one of her favorite things about him–he was always interested in what she was painting and expressed how much he loved her art. He proudly hung it anywhere he could, and when they ever met new people at social functions he would mention how she was an artist but never in a derisive manner. He always sounded so proud of her, so much it made her blush with embarrassment.
She doubts he would support it anymore, not after she nearly bashed his head in with a golf club, even if by accident and asked for a divorce he likely wouldn’t grant her.
“He did.”
She looks away, off into the dark.
“You married Marshall, didn’t you?”
All the joy held in his voice before is gone, replaced with pity as if he already knows the truth.
“I don’t want to talk about Marshall.”
“Fine by me, there are a thousand better topics to discuss,” he agrees, the pity turned to disgust–but now she’s curious. She may not see Rafael again and has to know.
“When you lived at the fraternity, why was he so cold to you?”
“I thought we weren’t talking about Marshall.”
She widens her eyes insistently. Curiously.
Rafael sighs and slumps his cheek into his hand, “I wasn’t legacy. I didn’t come from a wealthy family. I had to work twice as hard as any of them in order to make it through college. I was paying my own tuition and Marshall never wanted me there but I was allowed to be their ‘token poor’ member. He was always looking for a way to get me tossed out of the Greek Society, if not trying to make me miserable enough to drop out.”
“Why did you even want to be in it?”
“Being a part of the society opens a variety of connections. Do you think I would have gotten a chance to do a residency in Serrano if I didn’t know someone who knew someone in the Greek Society? It’s highly beneficial.”
“Like making a deal with a devil.”
Four long years of being treated like trash just for a chance at his dream of being a doctor and getting the best opportunities.
He pauses, then says, “We both did.”
He’s referring to her marrying into the Cosgrove family, but what had she gained from it? Who benefitted?
She feels tired all of a sudden, with a hint of nausea–perhaps she is hungry and should eat.
“I need to get going–”
“Are you okay?”
“Just nauseous. A little tired. Today was the first day back at my gallery since…”
Her wedding.
Her eyes widen, suddenly recalling her wedding night. She had fallen into the sheets with Marshall after he smooth-talked her, promising he’d never let his eyes wander again. And she, like a naive, foolish, optimist, desperate to please and move on, had believed his lie.
“I have to go. This was…it was…” she stands abruptly, and can’t say this little outing was nice per se, it was more awkward than anything, and probably a mistake. Her mind is too busy racing, she needs to leave as soon as possible.
Rafael stands as well, realizing it’s at an end, and apparently has burning questions of his own, as he asks, “Why did you ask me out for a drink?”
“I–”
“Are you trying to make Marshall angry?”
“No, I–”
“Jealous?”
“I genuinely wanted to just talk to you–I have no friends of my own. I’m so awkward, and I don’t…I really don’t know how to keep conversations going and you just showed up and I already knew you, sort of. I just–thanks for this. Thanks for offering me water that one time at one of the frat parties. I really really need to go home now.”
Charlotte finds herself rambling, and anxiously switching her purse from hand to hand in a manner of fidgeting before she bolts.
“Let’s do it again sometime then. You have my number. I’m all ears,” he surprises her and puts a 20-note simoleon on the table to pay for their drinks and refills.
“Than–”
*Flash*
Charlotte is nearly blinded as light explodes and quickly fades, contrasting against the dark sky. Three more pop off and she can hear Rafael’s startled shout of ‘what the hells?’
She knows what it is before the spots clear from her eyes.
A paparazzo had followed her! Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She grabs Rafael, pulls him close, and says to him between blinks, “Don’t go straight home, they’ll follow you. We can’t do this again, I'm sorry.”
How did the day turn so sour so fast? So, so fast? Charlotte stares bitterly in the mirror at her reflection.
She feels stiff but her hand is shaking. She is even more nauseous. With everything going on, she had overlooked the most crucial details.
“I don’t have to read your mind when your mood is strong enough to cast an aura,” she hears the fathomless baritone hit the air a split second before Mick appears next to her. She smells the ocean, more specifically the beach after a storm.
“What ‘aura’?” she asks defensively, and jumps back.
“Sadness, and anger…sanger?” they say, an attempt to mix them into one feeling.
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she brushes them off.
“And fear. An enormous fear,” their smile dissipates and they look at her with concern. Charlotte sets what she had in her hand on her nightstand, figuring a spirit of Twiikkii wouldn’t even know what it is. She quickly tries to swallow those feelings and notices the cat from earlier has jumped on her bed.
“Maybe I fear this cat is going to bring in fleas or scratch me while I sleep. Why is it still here?”
“No! Lovely Creature would never. She promises she is well-groomed and will only maul intruders. She will try her best anyway, she is rather scrawny,” Mick explains and the calico looks at him with her green, slitted eyes and belts out an offended meow.
The funny thing about swallowing so much emotion over a lifetime is that it can’t all be digested. Charlotte doesn’t care so much about the cat’s presence but needs to go buy it some proper cat food and not just feed it tuna from a can. A small worry, all things considered, buried near the bottom of her overall pile of worries that seemed like a mountain.
Fuck.
“I’m going to bed.”
She knows better than to hope this has all been a dream.
“Something is wrong,” Mick’s eyes narrow and focus on her.
“I’m fine.”
Their stare is intensely insistent. She knows at any moment the fiend could just mentally poke at the dam in her head and it will all flood out. She begins to breathe heavier and shorter–the emotions she had swallowed are racing up her chest. She finally cries out in a strangled sound of pain because she doesn’t know how she can move forward.
Mick is startled, but can’t begin to question her before she hides her face behind her hands.
“Do it. Read my mind,” she consents because she has no energy to explain it all. Mick can see it all, parse it, and understand if she lets them. As she feels that mental tug, like a passenger opening and closing a car door, the emotions manifest in her eyes. She stands next to Mick and sobs uncontrollably – tears of anger, sadness, and fear.
After a few moments, Mick slides her glasses off her face and sets them on her nightstand. They then prod her toward the bed where she falls into it and curls up, still sobbing. Even the cat is attentive but doesn’t run away at her cries.
Mick takes a seat next to her and leans over–swiping her braid back from her neck, a gesture of comfort. “Rest now.”
She shudders as she takes another breath, her face hidden behind her hands once more, wishing she could just disappear.
“There is nowhere to go but forward. Any future tomorrow will be better than today,” they say, their weight is gone, their voice echoing in her fading consciousness, “Emit doog ni lla.”
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