DESIRED PYROTECNICS Chapter Six--Heresy for the Just

    

    Standing in the immaculate white bathroom the next morning, I carefully pried my sweater from the 

wounds on my arms. I'd been so out of it, I'd fallen asleep in my clothes. Getting the wool unstuck was no 

easy task and I bled like a stuck pig. Stuffing wads of toilet paper on the sores, I prayed I wouldn't bleed 

all over the alabaster walls and carpet.

    The shower shocked some sense into me, and the hot water stung like the seven fires of hell. I almost 

welcomed the pain, as it was the first real shower I'd seen in weeks. While scrubbing the mats out of my 

hair, I glanced down at the forest growing on my legs, and decided such a momentous undertaking could 

wait – they'd have to stay hairy until another day.

    After drying off, I went in search of a robe. Hidden deep within the closet of the guest room was a pale 

pink satin one. Pretty, but not exactly me, but it would have to do, I thought. Eyeing my small bundle of 

dirty clothes, I wondered whether I should wash or simply burn them. Throwing them into the behemoth 

of a washing machine, I puzzled over the various knobs and buttons for a couple of minutes, before 

managing to make it start.

    My stepmother sat at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper, already dressed for work. Giving me a 

quick once over, she asked, “How are you this morning? Did you sleep well?”

    “Like the dead,” I answered, pouring my first cup of coffee. “Sorry about being such a wreck yesterday. 

The journey was really long and things have been really tough. I think I might be suffering from post 

traumatic stress disorder or something.”

    “No. No,” she clucked. “You don't have that.”

    “No,” I insisted. “I really think I do. I think I need to see someone.”

    “You don't need to see someone,” she replied. “You don't need anyone to help you feel better. Every 

time you feel bad you only need to imagine yourself surrounded by a pool of love and you need to let 

yourself dive in.” Putting her hands together she made a diving motion.

    “What? No.” I was confused. “I really think I need to see someone. Seriously, I've been through some 

really bad shit.”

    “No. No, ” she clucked again, peering at me from over the tops of her red-rimmed reading glasses. 

“You'll be fine. Just try it – you'll see.”

    “Umm... okay,” I answered. Was I still dreaming, I wondered, because that exchange was surreal as 

fuck. Surreptitiously, I glanced at her to see whether she was joking or not, but she gone back to 

contentedly doing the crossword puzzle. No, she'd been serious. Somebody cue the Twilight Zone music 

because I was obviously in for a bumpy landing.

    “How long are you going to stay?” she asked, inking in another answer.

    “About a week,” I replied. “Then, I'll head into Chicago and go house sit for some restaurant owner I've 

never met.”

    “Do you have any money?”

    “Not really.”

    “Well, how are you going to get by?”

    I shrugged, “I don't know. The same way I always do. I'll sell some more pieces. Start working on a new 

collection.”

    “That isn't a very concrete plan,” she said, frowning at me.

    No. But then I haven't had a very concrete life, I thought. Adventurous – yes. Insane – yes. Stable – no. 

I got a big, fat F when it came to stability. “It's the city and there's a big art scene there – I'll make 

connections. It'll only be a matter of time. Besides, I still have friends there.”

    “And what do they do?”

    I don't know. What does it fucking matter? Please, caffeine, please kick in, I prayed. I'm gonna drop my 

basket any second if you don't caffeinate me pronto. “Um, work?” I answered. “In the art world...” Well, 

that was partially true.

    “Okay. But if you are interested the local hospital is hiring. They're doing a trainee course for 

processors. You could graduate within a couple of months and they have really good healthcare plan...” 

she tapered off.

    Oh my God! I tried not to panic. I knew she meant well, but the thought of working in a cubicle gave 

me heart palpitations. The cappuccino colored walls and white tiled floor in the kitchen began to pulsate in 

my imagination. Then, I became convinced they were closing in around me. Fuck, I needed air.

    “I'm going to go and enjoy some sunshine,” I murmured, all but running for the patio.

    Sitting on one of the lawn chairs, I gulped the fresh air. Calm the fuck down, Anabelle. She was only 

trying to help, I reasoned with myself. Over in the neighbor's yard, a hawk swooped down and snatched 

some kind of small creature, which squealed and squeaked in alarm – signs and portents much anyone? A 

game show version of myself popped up into my head. Welcome to your life where you are a small and 

squealing thing caught in the talons of the nameless predatorial conspiracy called the material world. You 

too will be a slave to money and the system as it slowly crushes the creative life out of you. Forget your 

dreams and become a team player, and in return we will give you the illusion of safety and respectability. 

Join us now...

    Sipping the coffee, I mulled over my dismal potential futures. My biggest problem was that I did not 

think inside the box. I hated boxes, or cages of any sort, and I really did not care about money or 

possessions. My life had taken so many left hand turns that I didn't know how to play the game anymore, 

nor did I care to relearn it. Instead, I would have to hang onto whatever I had left of myself. I was so 

fucked. Closing my eyes, I let the sunshine work its magic. After a few minutes, I felt calmer.

    Tiptoeing back into the kitchen to grab a refill, I breathed a sigh of relief realizing I was alone. 

Grabbing my laptop, I switched it on preparing myself for the onslaught of incoming emails, which I knew 

would be a chore. I wrote Katia, Matteo, and Tabby, letting them know I'd made it safe and sound. 

Opening up a new window, I typed in the words 'American Consulate in Spain'. Now that I was safely 

back on American soil it was time to see whether or not the police had done anything back in Spain. 

Finding the site, I sent an email stating the basics of my case, attaching a copy of the police record. The 

consulate got back within a couple of minutes expressing their regret over the incident and said they 

would call the police station right away. I sent them back a quick thank you message.

    Near the bottom of my in box was a message sent to both Haiden and myself from the Dutch couple, 

Lars and Lara. They wondered how the work was going, and when could they expect to see the synopsis 

of the first pieces? Also, they wanted to know how soon we could finish? Staring at the screen, I was 

uncertain how to respond. Of course, I was interested the opportunity was too good to pass up. The only 

problem was I'd have to unblock Haiden. And it would mean dealing with him in a professional capacity 

again. I had to admit, though, I missed that part of him. I missed the depth of our creative conversations, 

and the places our collective imaginations took us to when we clicked. It was a powerful mental 

aphrodisiac, but it was also dangerous because it was his way in with me. Could I handle it? I wondered. 

And not get entangled? Hovering over the button, I unblocked his name. No messages came up – he hadn't 

contacted me. I laughed. How typical of me to be frightened of something which had never existed. The 

mind really was a monkey.

    The consulate got back again. They contacted the police in Beceite who told them the case was still 

under investigation and to call back in a couple of months. Great, my mood darkened – another score for 

Spanish bureaucracy. I was well aware it was their way of saying they didn't want to deal with it. They had 

done none of what they said they were going to do and he was going to get away Scott free. So much for 

justice the elusive bitch she was. She must have been on vacation with karma in Tahiti or some other 

exotic locale. Neither of them had exactly been my friend as of late. They didn't even send postcards.

    Getting up, I paced about the kitchen, trying to make a decision. Like so much of what happened 

between Haiden and I, the timing was uncanny. Was the gallery opening another poisoned carrot? 

Probably, I thought. Weren't they all? But it was hard to tell... And he hadn't been in touch so it was 

obvious he'd moved on. Maybe we could salvage some sort of professional relationship, which would 

benefit both our careers. I was a professional after all for fuck's sake.

    Sitting back down, I typed a carefully worded message that said the work was going well and we would 

see about getting them an updated synopsis and time frame. As soon as I sent it, Haiden popped up on the 

messenger. My heart fluttered. He was irritated I'd finally surfaced, and was in the States. I sent him back 

an equally terse reply before I could stop myself, although I knew it was stupid to engage into dialogue 

with him – playing with scorpions got you stung every time.

    “What is with the attitude and why did you never answer any of my other messages. I don't hear from 

you for over a month and a half and suddenly you pop up with a total bitch on. What is the deal?”

    “What messages? I never received any messages,” I typed furiously.

    “But I sent them to you and they're still in the sent box.”

    “Well, I never received them. So I don't know what you are talking about” 

    “I'm going to resend.”

    Great, I thought. Here we go for another ride on hell's rollercoaster.

    Three messages popped up. Three beautiful messages full of everything I wanted to hear about how he 

truly loved me and how much he missed me and how he would do anything to make the situation better. 

My breath caught in my throat as my heart froze, before breaking into a thousand splinters of antimatter. 

Gasping, the tears fell from my eyes. I could have my old life back. I could have the magic back. He was 

sorry... But, wait... hadn't we been down this route before and it hadn't worked at all?

    Walking onto the porch, I collapsed into a lawn chair. It would be a lie not to say there wasn't a part of 

me thrilled to know he still loved me. But why did it hurt so badly? What he had written were only words 

and his actions spoke so much differently. I knew I was being delusional, but a flicker of hope stirred. Yes, 

I was so afraid of the circumstances I faced that I took comfort in the familiar—in the devil I knew so 

well. It would only be a matter of time before he kicked me off of the pedestal and straight in the chops 

again. Lighting a cigarette, I took a punishing drag, contemplating how I could hate and love someone so 

much at the same time – it was baffling. My first morning in the States and already my world was flying 

into a million pieces.

    Coming outside, my father asked, “everything okay?”

    Stubbing out my cigarette, I answered. “Yes. Well, no. I don't know. Haiden just got in touch and there's 

a huge show coming up...”

    “Do you think it's wise to be speaking with him?”

    “No. Probably not, but it's kind of a big deal.”

    “Uh huh,” he said, crossing his arms.

    “Of course he's telling me everything I want to hear.” 

    “Too bad it's not the truth.”

    Ouch! Let me hang onto the fantasy a few moments longer, please. It's been a rough morning. But 

seeing the worry on his face, I replied, “I know – I know.”

    “Just be careful. Even arguing with him means there's some kind of relationship left.” 

    “I will I promise.”

    Glancing at his watch, he said, “I have to go to work. You'll be here later on?” 

“Where else would I go?” I replied, looking around. He laughed at that.

    “Can you do me a favor?” I asked. “Could you pick up something for this cough. It's down in my lungs 

and I think I'm still running a fever.”

    He glanced pointedly at the stubbed out cigarette.

    I sighed. “Yes, I know, smoking doesn't help, but now isn't exactly the best time to quit. I'd hate to go 

postal or something.”

    “No,” he deadpanned. “We wouldn't want that – it might upset the neighbors... I'll see what I can get for 

the cough. In the meantime, take some aspirin and get some rest. Go back to bed. One day off isn't going 

to kill you.”

    “Doctor's orders?”

    “Doctor's orders,” he reiterated. And then, he was off.

    Picking up the cigarette I'd put out next to the potted plant, I relit it – a class act all the way.

    Lying in the guest bed, I tried not to mull over the messages sitting on the laptop I'd shut down as I 

flipped through the TV channels. The remote resembled a weapon from a science fiction movie from my 

childhood and there were at least a thousand channels. There was so much choice it was baffling. Instead 

of settling on one show, I checked the endless synopsis' to make certain I wasn't missing something I 

shouldn't miss. After a while, I settled on a documentary channel, hoping it would put me to sleep. It did 

the job and I didn't awake until the early evening. 

    My stepmother finished dinner while my father set the table when I entered the kitchen.

    “I see you took my advice,” he teased.

    “Sorry,” I apologized, rubbing my eyes, and stifling a yawn. “I didn't mean to sleep the day away.”

    “Did you hear anything else on the new project,” he asked carefully.

    “No,” I answered, taking a seat at the table. “I left it alone like I said I would.”

    “Good.” Rummaging through the cabinet next to the stove, he pulled out a bottle of wine, and asked, 

“Vino?”

    “Oh, yes,” I answered.

    “What's the new project?” asked my stepmother, chopping vegetables for a salad. 

    “It's not exactly new,” I answered. “I talked to the people already in Dublin. It's a big exhibit for a new 

high-end gallery they're opening in London.” 

    “Would it be a solo show?”

    “I wish, but my name isn't that big yet.”

    Setting down the chopping knife, she stated, “so it would be another show with Haiden.” 

    “Yes,” I sighed, taking the glass of Cabernet from my father. “I know it's crazy, but it could mean real 

money.”

    “How do you know you'll see any of it?”

    “I don't know. I'll have to be smart about it.” Fuck, I thought, gulping the wine. She had a point. 

Negotiating separate contracts on two sides of the world would prove to be tricky and then answering why 

we weren't working together would be even trickier.

    “I think it's really unwise,” she said, shaking her head. “There are other ways for you to make money.”

    “True. I have a solo show in mind and I've been working on the concept for a while. The people in 

Dublin probably aren't going to want it, but I'm sure a gallery in Chicago will.”

    Tossing the vegetables into the salad, she asked, “What's this one about? I would think your work is a 

little... umm... subversive for the States.”

    I knew I should bite my tongue, but I couldn't resist. “It's called Desired Pyrotechnics,” I answered. 

“It'll be a whole photo study of the female orgasm mixed with religious ecstasy of the saints and relatable 

iconography throughout the ages. I'm thinking mainly the Catholic Church, as they seem so big on it. I 

mean, come one, everyone knows they're misogynistic, repressed, and hypocritical in their teachings, 

especially when it comes to women.”

    Tilting her head, she blinked at me a couple of times before stalking out of the room. 

    Setting the wine glass on the counter, I turned toward my father and apologized. “I'm sorry – my bad. I 

totally forgot she was Catholic.”

    “And she's sensitive about her faith... but you knew that already,” he replied.

    “Why? Because she's in denial? Because she's a party of one and you're Buddhist? How does that work 

anyway with you being not Catholic?” I asked.

    He sighed. “Ever since you were a little girl you've loved to push the envelope and you wonder why 

you get into trouble. It works for us because we respect each others boundaries.”

    “I was only answering her question,” I protested.

    “No,” he replied. “You were pushing her buttons,”

    “She pushed mine first.”

    “She was only trying to help.”

    I opened my mouth but quickly shut it again. It was pointless to argue.

    Clearing his throat, he shifted in his seat. ”You're not planning on shooting any of that new series here?” 

he asked.

    I put my chin in my hands. “No. I wasn't planning on it. Who the heck would I get to model for me out 

here? Although, I could always use myself and put a timer on the camera.”

    “Umm...”

    “I'm joking. I'm joking,” I pouted. “I would never do that to you guys. Really. I'll be good. I promise.”

    “Your version of good has a rather broad spectrum,” he replied dryly.

    “I know I kind of crash landed here yesterday, but I will pull it together. At least I made it back.” I 

smiled at him.

    “We're both glad you are back and that you are safe. You've been gone for such a long time and yet, you 

are the same as always,” he said, returning the smile.

    “No. I'm not the same. I'm not the same at all. I've been swimming with the sharks for a very long time 

and I'm not a shark, although, I can pretend to be one sometimes.” 

    He looked confused.

    “All I'm trying to say,” I continued. “Is I've sustained a lot of damage. I'm still walking and talking but 

there isn't much left of me on the inside.”

    “Only time will help that—and distance.”

    “Everyone keeps saying that, but it doesn't help. I don't know what is going to help.” I started to cough. 

It was an ugly, rasping sound. Pushing the wine glass to one side, I added, “This isn't helping either, 

unfortunately.”

    Rising, my father opened another nearby cabinet, taking out a clear plastic bottle with a purplish fluid 

inside, and handing it to me. “I picked this up for you earlier. It should help the cough.”

    “Does it have codeine in it?” I asked.

    “Yes,” he answered.

    “Woo-hoo!”

    “Proceed with caution, please,” he warned. “It would be embarrassing if you overdosed on cough 

syrup.”

    “You're right. With my reputation that'd be an exceptionally lame way to go,” I laughed, lapsing into 

another round of hacking. Grabbing the bottle, I broke the seal, drinking straight from it. I screwed the cap 

back on. “Thank you for this. I'm going back to the contagion ward before it gets any worse and let you 

guys eat dinner in peace. I'll apologize to my stepmother in the morning.”

    Leaning forward and squeezing my shoulder affectionately, he said, ”get better, okay?” 

    “Will do.”

    “And leave the bottle here...” he pointed to the cabinet

     “Yes, sir.”

    After putting the bottle away, I headed back into the zombie land of a thousand useless stations letting 

the codeine do its job.

    Pneumonia set in, my fever spiked, and I didn't leave the bed for the next four days. Someone brought 

me soup and fed it to me, and antibiotics rested next to a glass of water on a table by the bed. I wished 

there'd been a pen and paper to record some of the intense hallucinations I'd suffered through. There had 

been high tea with a minor demon wearing gloves with a lace edging while serving tiny, delicate, frosted 

cakes. There'd also been an aquarium full of lake monsters, murky water, and seaweed. Some of the 

freaky, fish-like creatures possessed human heads they periodically banged against the glass, making me 

scream. The noise from the television set which was on the whole time might have attributed to the 

nightmare land of fever dreams. I must have been coughing in my sleep because my chest ached so badly I 

wondered if my lungs had collapsed. At some point, I took off my clothes, sweating through the sheets, 

which then dried and stuck to my body like a badly wrapped mummy. On the fourth day, I opened my 

eyes, and the world cleared. Sitting up, I felt woozy, but there wasn't a heat shimmer glistening over the 

walls and I focused on objects without getting cross-eyed. At least I'd stopped coughing and my chest 

barely hurt at all. Rubbing the continent of sleep from my eyes, I got up, wobbled into the bathroom, 

turned on the shower, and sat underneath it until the water washed me clean. 

    Heating up soup in the microwave, I switched on the laptop while I waited. There were a slew of 

messages from Haiden sporting block capitals in the titles, and one from Lars and Lara. Staring at the 

screen, I contemplated whether I had the energy to deal with them, or if I should hide beneath the covers. 

A voice of guilt nagged in the back of my head – I never took a day off and I'd been off the map for the 

better part of a week – so I opened the mail. The last message from Haiden sucker punched me. 'I can't 

stop thinking about you and I want to strangle you at the same time. Get in touch with me! Don't be so 

stupid as to fuck this up!'

    The microwave beeped and like magic the tomato soup was ready. Not bothering with a spoon, I threw 

in a handful of goldfish crackers, drinking it straight from the bowl.

    At least I was still on the project, I mused. For now... Still, how could he even write such a phrase after 

what he'd done to me? Was there some part of him that actually wished me dead?

    The letter from Lars and Lara expressed their apprehensions that the two of us were on different 

continents and how were we going to work around that fact? But it didn't say anything about us not being 

together any more. Obviously, Haiden talked to them, but hadn't told them everything. They suggested a 

conference Skype as soon as possible and were waiting on my answer. I'd have to deal with the situation 

even if I didn't feel up to it. I didn't want to hear Haiden's voice. Enough time had passed that I'd begun to 

forget what he sounded like.

    Taking a couple of aspirin, and an antibiotic fetched from the bedroom, I sat down, typing a message 

back to them full of apologies; that I'd been ill from my flight, and was available at their earliest 

convenience.

    Haiden was all over it on the messenger. 'WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!!!!!COULD 

YOU DROP THE BALL A LITTLE HARDER!!!'

    'Quit being an asshole', I replied. 'I've been really sick like I said in the mail. Like deathly ill'

    'Jesus fucking Christ! You're always sick. You always have some fucking lame excuse...' 

    'Fuck you, sincerely. I've been on antibiotics and this is longest I've been up in days.'

     'Obviously, you aren't fit to work on this project and can't handle it. I should have told them that instead 

of recommending you.'

    'If memory serves me, and I was there, they wanted us both on the project. Not just you.' 

'You know they were only being nice to you because you were with me.'

    'That was a cheap shot, even for you. I see your ego is still the raging, vacuous, black hole it's always 

been.'

    'It's not ego, Anabelle. I'm a professional and you are not.'

    'Yeah. You are a professional asshole. There's no denying that fact.' 

    'And you're a talentless bitch who's been riding my coattails for years.'

    That one hurt. I switched off the messenger. The fury rising inside me wanted to punch the wall, and it 

was all I could do not to bang out the words 'FUCK YOU' in block capitals over and over again. Even at 

three thousand miles away, he still had the ability to bully and belittle me. He knew exactly how to shatter 

my confidence, gaining the upper hand.

    The Skype went off. Taking a deep breath, I pushed the accept button. The call went flawlessly. Haiden 

and I were casual and confident in allaying the power couple's fears; reassuring them there would be no 

problems. We laughed at each other’s jokes, presenting a happy and united front. It was bizarre, and worse 

than that, it was easy. After we all hung up, I stared at the wall. A part of me was excited, wishing that was 

the way things actually were, but another part of me was disgusted for lying. I was making a really bad 

choice, and I knew it was a poison carrot, but it was such a brightly colored one, I could not resist.

    Arriving home later on, my father was surprised to see me up and about. “What's going on?” he asked, 

setting his briefcase on the counter.

    “Not much,” I lied, “just taking it easy.”

    “It's good to see you're back in the land of the living.”

    “It's good to be back. I haven't been sick like that in a very long time. Must have been all the stress of 

the travel.”

    “Uh huh,” he answered, scrolling through the caller ID on the house phone. “Hey, your friend Stephanie 

left a couple of messages. Did you get them?”

    I shook my head. “No. I'll go and give her a call.”

    “Tell her I said hello.”

    “Will do.”

    Grabbing the phone, I headed to the porch. The sun was low in the sky, streaked with pink and gold 

clouds.

    I dialed and Stephanie picked up right away. 

    “Howdy stranger,” she said.

    “Hey. Sorry to have been incommunicado,” I told her. “But I've been sick as a dog.”

     “So, I heard. You better now?” she asked.

    “Yeah,” I replied. “The penicillin seems to have knocked whatever was lurking inside my chest on its 

ass.”

    “Good. 'Cause I was going to come and get you in a couple of days. Will you be up for it?”

    “Oh, hell yes. You are a godsend.”

    “That bad, huh?”

    “No. It's mainly me—and the whirling ball of chaos which always surrounds me.” 

    “But that's why we love you.”

    “You are a party of one, but thank you any way. I'll tell you all about it when I see you.” 

    “The walls have ears?”

    Glancing through the window, I could see my father repositioning one of the couches in the living room 

in his never-ending quest for the perfect feng shui. “Indeed, they might,” I said.

    “Okay, then. I'll come by about noon day after tomorrow. Does that work?” 

    “Perfecto.”

    “Oh, and by the way, an old friend of mine got in touch out of the blue and invited us to his place for a 

party. Do you remember CJ?”

    “Of course – we met once when I was sixteen, I think? He's still alive?”

    “Yep. Alive, and kicking, and living out here of all places – so do you want to go?”

    “Sure. Why not? Might be entertaining. I haven't hung out with a rock star in ages.”

    “Okay. I'll let him know.”

    “All right then.”

    “Okay. Gotta run. See you soon.”

    “Cool. And thanks again.”

    “No worries. Ciao.”

    “Ciao.”

    Hanging up, I went back inside. The couch had reached it full feng shui potential. My stepmother had 

arrived in the meantime and they were both relaxing on it.

    “How's Stephanie?” asked my father.

    “Fine. She's coming to pick me up in a couple of days and take me into the city,” I replied.

    “So soon?” he said. “Feels like you just got here.”

    “That's because I've basically been in a coma,” I answered.

    My stepmother smiled at my remark. It was a relief to know she wasn't mad at me any more. “Your 

laptop keeps beeping,” she said.

    “Oh... Sorry,” I apologized, “I thought I'd turned it off.”

    I went into the kitchen to check it, and a bunch of 'I'm sorry I lost my temper earlier' from Haiden 

awaited me.

    'Don't worry about it.' I typed before turning the computer off.

    Walking back into the living room they were both staring at me.


    “It was just the messenger,” I explained.

    “Who was it?” my stepmother asked.

    “Haiden,” I answered.

    “I thought you had him blocked.”

    “I did, but with this new project I'm going to have to talk to him. Besides, he's three thousand miles 

away—how much damage can he do?”

    They shot a look at each other.

    “Okay,” I sighed. “I understand your concern, but I've got this. There's no chance of me getting back 

together with him. I'm not going to let him hurt me again.” The words sounded hollow in my ears – and I 

was lying. He'd verbally bludgeoned me only a few hours earlier. “Listen. My survival and my safety are 

of utmost importance to me. That's one of the reasons I need to head into the city. I need to get things 

going – more for my own sanity than anything else. And these things have nothing to do with Haiden.” I 

smiled as brightly as possible.

    My stepmother wasn't buying it. “You know, I wish I could be a creative person so I could keep my own 

hours and live by my own set of rules and still somehow manage to make money. It must be so hard,” she 

remarked.

    Staring at her, I uncertain how to respond. Then, it came to me. “Well, maybe some day you'll get the 

chance and then you'll see what it's really like.” The silence was deafening. Two days, I said to myself, 

two freaking days.

    “Should we look for a new movie?” asked my dad, being as ever, the diplomat.

    “The Blackhawks game is on,” answered my stepmother. “We'll watch that.” Picking up the remote, she 

tuned into the game.

    I watched for a couple of minutes and left them to it.

    Driving into the city felt like a kind of homecoming after my week in the suburbs, even though Chicago 

wasn't in any way my home. Still, it had been years since I'd seen proper skyscrapers.

    As we drove into downtown Stephanie asked if I wanted to take Lower Wacker Drive. 

    “No way,” I answered. “There's people living down there – there's like a whole other civilization living 

down there.” 

    “Mind the doors...!” she parroted as we drove past the turn off.

    Surprised, I glanced at her. “Nice quote from Death Line. You know a cannibal would be screaming that 

down there. You are good.”

    Smirking, she replied, “I try.”

    She parked in front of an imposing three-story gray stone on a fairly affluent-looking street. Inside, 

oriental rugs covered the hardwood floors, the ceilings were requisite with crown molding, and there were 

all kinds of exotic plants. I admit I was fascinated by the big, bay windows, and the ultra-modern, stainless 

steel kitchen, not to mention the leather sofas and wide screen TV.

    “This place is lush,” I said, not bothering to disguise the awe in my voice.

    “Not bad, huh,” answered Stephanie.

    “Is the guy who owns this place married?” I joked, sitting my bags down. 

    Shaking her head, she replied. “Not batting for our team, unfortunately.”

    “I should have guessed,” I said, nodding at the corner. “No straight man would have such a healthy-

looking ficus tree.”

    “Indeed,” she agreed, sitting on one of the leather couches. “So what happened at your Dad's?”

    “Same old foot-in-mouth syndrome,” I laughed. “I know they love me, but I'm never going to have the 

white picket fence and the 2.5 kids.”

    “You would think they'd have accepted that fact by now.”

    “Oh, I think they have. They just don't understand some of the decisions I make. Of course I don't 

understand some of the decision I make, so who could blame them.”

    ”Like you used to always say – path of the heart!”

    Rolling my eyes, I took the seat opposite her. “Ugh! Don't remind me of how overly idealistic I once 

was while steeped in teenage angst.”

    We both laughed.

    “Plus,” I said, “Haiden got in touch and the big gallery deal is back on the table." 

    “Yuck!” She made a face. “Why are you bothering with that jerk? I thought you had him blocked.”

    “I did, but this is a really important opportunity.”

    “I get that. But you and I both know it's gonna end in tears.” 

    “Probably,” I agreed. “But I have to at least try.”

    “I don't want to talk about him. Go slap some paint on,” she ordered.

    “What? The au naturel – have just-gotten-over-the-plague look doesn't suit me?” I joked, standing up.

    “Don't be a troglodyte just because you can. Go!” She pointed towards the bathroom.

    ”Yes, ma'am!” I saluted her, clicking my heels.

    “Then we can go and have some fun. You remember fun, right?” she asked, arching one eyebrow.

    I smiled sadly. “It's a pretty distant memory, but yeah, I think I remember how.” “Good. Then get your 

ass into gear.”