Faithful
Page 56
“Believe me, I tried,” James tells her. “That bastard knew his knots.”
When the dog has finished with his business, they go up to James’s apartment. It’s bigger than Shelby’s place, but not by much. It’s certainly emptier: a bed, an old couch, and a long trestle table littered with drawing paper and bottles of colored ink. There are intricate tattoo patterns taped to the wall, all blue and black. A heron in flight, a rose that never blooms, a constellation of stars. Alongside are original illustrations for a graphic novel, Nevermore, just published by a small press in Queens. Several copies are stacked on the table, fresh from the publisher. The images are vivid: a young man called the Misfit, who dons a black coat like the one James wears. A raven is perched on his shoulder and a monster looms before him. All in shades of black and blue, grim and heartbreaking and glorious.
“Did you write this?” Shelby asks.
“It’s a comic. The story is mostly what you see.”
As Shelby flips through the pages, it becomes clear that the raven is the soul of the main character’s deceased brother. The Misfit has lost the power of speech, and his brother, the Raven, speaks for them both. Together they fight demons in New York City, of which there is an endless supply. Each time another one is defeated, the Misfit comes closer to forgiveness, a state of grace he never can quite reach.
“It’s a beautiful story,” Shelby says. “Or is it a novel?” she jokes, bringing up their original argument.
“It’s a novel made up of stories. Like The Illustrated Man.” He holds up a battered copy of Bradbury’s book he picked up at the Strand Book Store. “You were right about this.”
He’s sitting on the couch, and Shelby goes to sit beside him. “The best book ever,” she says. Instead of speaking, James pulls her onto his lap and kisses her and she kisses him back. Shelby wants to see what it’s like to kiss an angel. As it turns out, it’s a little too good. It’s the best kiss she has ever had. She can feel the monster of desire inside him, and she feels it inside herself. They are desperate for each other, or maybe they’re just desperate. Shelby could go on kissing him, but she forces herself to stop. James lets out a groan. “Shelby,” he says, but she wrenches away. She knows what will happen if they keep on this way. They’ll wind up having sex, then she’ll take him home and he’ll be nice to her dogs and they’ll love him, and she’ll never get away. If they could go back in time to before the terrible things happened, back to when she could feel something, there might have been something between them, but it’s too late now. Shelby is moving to California. She hasn’t told anyone, she can barely believe it herself, but her letter of acceptance from the University of California at Davis School of Veterinary Medicine has arrived. She sleeps with it under her pillow, to ensure it won’t vanish.
James gets the message that she’s wary. He backs off, a gentleman, even though Shelby isn’t a hundred percent certain she wants him to be.
“That’s why I never came forward and sent the postcards instead,” he says. “I thought I’d scare you.”
Shelby gives him a look. “I’m not scared.”
“You seem like you are. You look like Bambi.”
“I do not! And if anyone should be scared, it’s you.”
James laughs. “I’m terrified.” He kisses her again, then stops, leaving her breathless. “Tell me right now if this is what you want. I want to hear you say it.”
For so long Shelby has prided herself on feeling nothing. Every time she held her hand over a flame, every time she ruined a relationship, every time she shaved her head, it was proof of who she was. A girl no one could hurt. Why would she open herself to him now when she’ll soon be leaving?
James takes her silence to mean she doesn’t want to end up in bed with him. “Right.” He scoops her off his lap and grabs his jacket. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you home.” He gives her a copy of Nevermore on the way out. “For your once-upon-a-time files,” he suggests.
“Thank you,” Shelby says formally.
“You can write me a thank-you note if you want to,” he says with some bitterness.
“Maybe I will.”
They take Coop and walk toward Chelsea. When Shelby slips her hand into his he doesn’t respond. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” he says. He’s getting sarcastic again. He’s pulling away. Not that she can blame him. She’s Miss Conflicted. Miss Weak-in-the-Knees. Why would she let him go, when she’s been waiting for him all this time?
“I have four dogs,” Shelby tells him.
“Okay.” James looks more confused than ever.
“One’s a Great Pyrenees. One’s blind. One’s a poodle.”
Most men hate poodles, but James doesn’t flinch. “What’s the fourth one? A Great Dane?”
“A French bulldog. I stole him from a homeless person. I grabbed him and the blind one. Actually, I stole the Great Pyrenees, too.”
“You’re a dognapper. Do you dress in black and wear a mask?”
“I stole a kitten, too, but I gave her away.”
“Good move,” James says. “You’re not a cat person.”
Shelby goes to kiss him. “This is what I want,” she tells him.
She brings him into the apartment. She’s got the jewelry box on her night table, and for some reason James goes right for it.
“Hey,” Shelby says, embarrassed.
But it’s too late. James has found the postcards. He turns to her with a grin.
“Okay, I saved them,” Shelby says.
“So I see.”
“You knew I would.”
James shrugs. He greets her dogs, and as Shelby suspected, although they’re suspicious of Coop, they seem to love James. James leans up against Ben’s great-aunt Ida’s dining room table and rubs Pablo’s head. He happens to have dog treats in his pockets, which makes him all the more attractive, except to the General, who has a sour expression. The General is making growling sounds low down in his throat.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at me,” James says of the bulldog. “Like I’m a rival.” James grabs Shelby and pulls her into the bathroom, so they can be alone. “How do you turn around in here?” he asks.
When the dog has finished with his business, they go up to James’s apartment. It’s bigger than Shelby’s place, but not by much. It’s certainly emptier: a bed, an old couch, and a long trestle table littered with drawing paper and bottles of colored ink. There are intricate tattoo patterns taped to the wall, all blue and black. A heron in flight, a rose that never blooms, a constellation of stars. Alongside are original illustrations for a graphic novel, Nevermore, just published by a small press in Queens. Several copies are stacked on the table, fresh from the publisher. The images are vivid: a young man called the Misfit, who dons a black coat like the one James wears. A raven is perched on his shoulder and a monster looms before him. All in shades of black and blue, grim and heartbreaking and glorious.
“Did you write this?” Shelby asks.
“It’s a comic. The story is mostly what you see.”
As Shelby flips through the pages, it becomes clear that the raven is the soul of the main character’s deceased brother. The Misfit has lost the power of speech, and his brother, the Raven, speaks for them both. Together they fight demons in New York City, of which there is an endless supply. Each time another one is defeated, the Misfit comes closer to forgiveness, a state of grace he never can quite reach.
“It’s a beautiful story,” Shelby says. “Or is it a novel?” she jokes, bringing up their original argument.
“It’s a novel made up of stories. Like The Illustrated Man.” He holds up a battered copy of Bradbury’s book he picked up at the Strand Book Store. “You were right about this.”
He’s sitting on the couch, and Shelby goes to sit beside him. “The best book ever,” she says. Instead of speaking, James pulls her onto his lap and kisses her and she kisses him back. Shelby wants to see what it’s like to kiss an angel. As it turns out, it’s a little too good. It’s the best kiss she has ever had. She can feel the monster of desire inside him, and she feels it inside herself. They are desperate for each other, or maybe they’re just desperate. Shelby could go on kissing him, but she forces herself to stop. James lets out a groan. “Shelby,” he says, but she wrenches away. She knows what will happen if they keep on this way. They’ll wind up having sex, then she’ll take him home and he’ll be nice to her dogs and they’ll love him, and she’ll never get away. If they could go back in time to before the terrible things happened, back to when she could feel something, there might have been something between them, but it’s too late now. Shelby is moving to California. She hasn’t told anyone, she can barely believe it herself, but her letter of acceptance from the University of California at Davis School of Veterinary Medicine has arrived. She sleeps with it under her pillow, to ensure it won’t vanish.
James gets the message that she’s wary. He backs off, a gentleman, even though Shelby isn’t a hundred percent certain she wants him to be.
“That’s why I never came forward and sent the postcards instead,” he says. “I thought I’d scare you.”
Shelby gives him a look. “I’m not scared.”
“You seem like you are. You look like Bambi.”
“I do not! And if anyone should be scared, it’s you.”
James laughs. “I’m terrified.” He kisses her again, then stops, leaving her breathless. “Tell me right now if this is what you want. I want to hear you say it.”
For so long Shelby has prided herself on feeling nothing. Every time she held her hand over a flame, every time she ruined a relationship, every time she shaved her head, it was proof of who she was. A girl no one could hurt. Why would she open herself to him now when she’ll soon be leaving?
James takes her silence to mean she doesn’t want to end up in bed with him. “Right.” He scoops her off his lap and grabs his jacket. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you home.” He gives her a copy of Nevermore on the way out. “For your once-upon-a-time files,” he suggests.
“Thank you,” Shelby says formally.
“You can write me a thank-you note if you want to,” he says with some bitterness.
“Maybe I will.”
They take Coop and walk toward Chelsea. When Shelby slips her hand into his he doesn’t respond. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” he says. He’s getting sarcastic again. He’s pulling away. Not that she can blame him. She’s Miss Conflicted. Miss Weak-in-the-Knees. Why would she let him go, when she’s been waiting for him all this time?
“I have four dogs,” Shelby tells him.
“Okay.” James looks more confused than ever.
“One’s a Great Pyrenees. One’s blind. One’s a poodle.”
Most men hate poodles, but James doesn’t flinch. “What’s the fourth one? A Great Dane?”
“A French bulldog. I stole him from a homeless person. I grabbed him and the blind one. Actually, I stole the Great Pyrenees, too.”
“You’re a dognapper. Do you dress in black and wear a mask?”
“I stole a kitten, too, but I gave her away.”
“Good move,” James says. “You’re not a cat person.”
Shelby goes to kiss him. “This is what I want,” she tells him.
She brings him into the apartment. She’s got the jewelry box on her night table, and for some reason James goes right for it.
“Hey,” Shelby says, embarrassed.
But it’s too late. James has found the postcards. He turns to her with a grin.
“Okay, I saved them,” Shelby says.
“So I see.”
“You knew I would.”
James shrugs. He greets her dogs, and as Shelby suspected, although they’re suspicious of Coop, they seem to love James. James leans up against Ben’s great-aunt Ida’s dining room table and rubs Pablo’s head. He happens to have dog treats in his pockets, which makes him all the more attractive, except to the General, who has a sour expression. The General is making growling sounds low down in his throat.
“I don’t like the way he’s looking at me,” James says of the bulldog. “Like I’m a rival.” James grabs Shelby and pulls her into the bathroom, so they can be alone. “How do you turn around in here?” he asks.
