The Muse's Undoing

He laughs. “You smell weird.”

“I’m sorry,” I say without sacrificing an inch between us.

“I can’t breathe,” he adds.

Reluctantly, I let him go. And then he walks right past me into the apartment, like he’s home, and he’s got things to do.

I straighten up and grab my cane. Nicole is studying me with critical eyes. “You’re drunk.”

I narrow my eyes.

“I guess I should have called.”

“What do you want?”

“Can I come in, too?” she asks.

I stand aside, trying to control the frustration that wants to unleash itself on the nearest target.

“Can I make you some coffee?” she asks. “I want to talk.”

Unbidden, a tear trickles down my cheek, and she startles like a cat leapt out of a dark corner. I wipe it away. “You know where everything is.”

Vaughn already has a bag of Goldfish and is heading into his room.

“I told him I wanted a chance to speak with you in private,” Nicole explains, her tone softer.

This makes me want another drink. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this. The lawyers should?—”

“I just came from Matthew’s.”

The words punch straight through my chest. I may be drunk, but it doesn’t escape me that her visit preceded the destruction of his beautiful, painstakingly crafted sculpture broadcast for anyone and everyone to see. What could she possibly have said to him to make him do that?

I linger by Vaughn’s bedroom door, drinking in the sight of him making himself comfortable with his tablet and headphones on his bed. He flashes me a smile and waves.

I return the gesture limply, my heart cracking at how beautiful he is. How at home he looks.

I want to tell him that no matter what happens that I will love him for the rest of his life. That there is nothing he could ever do to make him anything less than the most important person in the world to me. I want to tell him that nothing that may happen is or could have ever been his fault. That he’s enough. He’s loved, and I fought as hard as I could. But there are some things too heavy for a six-year-old.

Maybe I’ll write him a letter. One he can read one day when he’s older. I’ll write him hundreds of letters. One for every day we’re apart so he understands I never stopped loving him, or, more importantly, wanting him. Letters that explain who I am and why I came home—and why it took me so long.

Nicole calls my name.

Turning to face the music, I meet her in the living room. She’s pushing a mug of coffee into my hand before I can refuse it. I’m afraid it’ll make me sick. “I may have overreacted,” she tells me when I hesitate to take it.

I stare blankly at her. She looks tired. Unhappy, but not angry.

I accept the coffee and nod toward the couch.

We take seats on opposite ends. I let my cane lean on the chair nearby. I hold the coffee, but I can’t bring myself to drink it.

“Raven has a massive crush on you apparently. If I’d known that, I might not have taken what she said so seriously.”

“What did she say?” I ask, going for an even tone.

“Parties, male escorts, drugs.”

“Drugs?”