Page 2 of Chasing Callie

Swallowing, I turn around and pick out a pair of slacks and a nice blouse with long sleeves. I don’t dare to inspect my arm, but I know there are marks on my skin. I’ve always bruised easily. Placing the outfit on the shelf, I start to peel off my dress. The floor creaks again, and dread runs through my entire body, but he doesn’t reach for me again.

His eyes burn over every inch of exposed skin in a way that makes me want to hide even though he’s seen me naked plenty of times. I do my best to act unaffected as I tug on the pants and pull on the blouse. When I’m done, I face him, waiting for his judgment.

Am I good enough for you now?

Theo’s face is full of an emotion I don’t understand. Hatred. It’s not the first time he’s looked at me this way. With the way we’ve been fighting, I’ve been on the receiving end of that look a lot lately.

Things used to be good. He used to make me feel so special, but I have a hard time remembering any of that as he stares at me like I’m enemy number one.

“I guess that’ll work,” he mutters, glaring at the ring on my finger.

My mom gave it to me on my seventeenth birthday, and I always wear it. Theo hates it.

“How do you think it makes me feel that it’s not my ring on your finger?”

“It’s on my right hand,” I tried to argue.

“It doesn’t matter, Callie! It’s emasculating!”

He wants me to take it off, but I tip my chin, refusing. Huffing, he stomps out of the closet and heads toward the front door. “Are you coming or what?”

The last thing I want to do is go anywhere with him. I glance at myself in the mirror in the closet. Brunette hair, tired hazel-green eyes with puffy eye bags despite my best attempts to conceal them. The woman staring at me is almost unrecognizable. I hate what he’s made me, and I think I want to break up with him.

“Callie!” His voice cracks through the air.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” But tonight is his first show at this gallery, and I wouldn’t want someone to ruin that for me.

Tomorrow then.

Things end tomorrow.

Theo berates me as we walk, but once the sidewalks get too crowded, he stews in silence.

Yes, must never let the rest of the world know what an asshole you are.

The beeping of his texts breaks the quiet between us. His steps slow, and I pause, watching him stare at the phone like it might decide to attack him. I try and peer at the message. He tucks the phone out of sight but not before I manage to catch some of the text.

Something about paying back money.

“Was that another scam?” He’s been getting a ton of spammy pay now or you’ll go to jail type texts and emails over the last few months. Enough that I can’t help wondering if there’s something more to them.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grumbles, stalking off and leaving me staring after him with confusion and hurt crinkling my face.

I hurry to catch up with him, hating how desperate I must look. We turn, and the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Artist Collective take my breath away. The AC is a well-known gallery in New York City, somewhere between an indie gallery and the museum of art. Having a show here is a steppingstone to bigger shows.

Back when I still had hope for my art, I dreamed about that type of opportunity. I’ve since learned my art isn’t cut out for this scene. Or so Theo and his friends have told me. Seeing as some of them have had multiple shows here, I trust them.

“I need you to behave tonight. None of your little quips.”

I stifle a retort, because I’m done fighting. No more arguing. Tomorrow, I’m gone. “Yes, Theo.”

He glares at me, and I’m sure he’d say more, but one of the coordinators rushes out to meet us. I study the pieces in the window. Those spots are reserved for the most well-known artists of our century. Their work is breathtaking. Full of emotion and meaning, bright bursts of color or dark swaths meant to convey the darker sides of ourselves. Or at least, that’s what it means to me.

“Callie.” Theo’s voice is sharp.

I absolutely loathe being summoned. My eyes flutter closed. “Coming.”

The coordinator hurries us inside, and I’m so wrapped up in the other art that I forget Theo has his own scattered about the room. I let myself linger for a moment then turn, prepared to give him one last night of support. A familiar canvas stares back at me, and my eyebrows knit together.