Justin choked before coughing and blurting, “You’re giving me permission to date Olin. To marry O?” His tone turned cool. “I don’t need your permission, Clark.”
My temper fired, but I kept it locked away. “I know. I just didn’t want you to hold back if there came a moment where you two could be happy together.”
“If O knew you’d said this to me, she’d be right pissed. You’re acting as if she doesn’t have a mind of her own.”
“She does. Her heart is big and desperate to love, but she’s also kind to a fault and far too generous to even consider being more than just friends with you out of fairness to me and our past.”
“I think you should talk to O.”
“I don’t want to mess her up any more than I already have.”
“Look, you’re tired and missing home and thinking you’ll never be happy again. I get it. Having your freedom taken away can’t be easy, but, Gil, stay focused on the future. You will get out of there. You will have Olive back and raise her into a wonderful young woman. And who knows, maybe O will wait for you, and you’ll all ride off into the sunset with your paintbrushes. Just focus on the possibility of—”
“Times up!” a guard shouted, waving his finger in the air and stabbing at the watch on his wrist.
“Shit, I’ve got to go.” I turned my back on the guard, swallowing hard. “Just...just be open to the idea, Miller. If you still have feelings for her. If you want her, and she wants you. Don’t worry about me. I just want her to have the best. And that isn’t me. It never was. It’s always been you. You guys are the same, Miller. Like should stick with like. Anyway, thanks for looking after my daughter. I promise one day, I’ll find a way to pay you back.”
I hung up before he could protest.
I walked back to my cell with images of O kissing Justin when he told her he still had feelings for her. Of her moving into Justin’s bedroom and becoming a surrogate mother to my child.
They would move on.
They would live in domestic bliss.
I would remain here in limbo.
A prisoner with nothing and no one.
And I was okay with that.
I was happy with that if it meant the two girls I loved more than anything were protected and cared for by a man I trusted with my life.
Chapter Thirty-Four
______________________________
Olin
GILBERT CLARK, the body painter from Birmingham responsible for killing the man who murdered at least four girls, with possibilities of countless more, has been incarcerated for the past six months.
Served five years for his role in the Painted Murders, the online community who demanded the death penalty and did their best to destroy his business has now faded into white noise on the web.
For such a prolific painter, Gilbert Clark refused to touch a paintbrush for five months where he’s currently serving his sentence. However, just last week, three canvases have been placed up for auction by the prison itself, donated by Gilbert Clark who, according to our sources, has returned to painting and now teaches a class to fellow inmates.
This past year, the prison has been working on the education offered to its prisoners, along with rehabilitation programs. Painting has been proven to have a positive impact on both psychological issues and stress levels.
The canvases on sale depict scenes from inside the jail. One shows the cafeteria where the inmates eat, another the barbwire-enclosed field where exercise is encouraged, and the last of a cell itself—complete with sketches of Gilbert Clark’s daughter, the woman he loves, and the friend who stuck by his side, blue-tacked to the cell walls.
If you wish to bid on one of these limited-edition canvases, please head to the prison website and click on the link provided.
I locked my phone as I entered Justin’s building.
I’d finished work early and surfed the news on the bus.
I’d stumbled upon the article about Gil’s return to painting.
My heart hurried in hope, grateful he’d finally embraced his gift again. I knew what it was like to live without such an outlet. To no longer be able to dance. To no longer be allowed to paint.
Thank goodness he’d been permitted to indulge his gift inside, and how brilliant that the prison had accepted his donations to sell. Hopefully, they could put the profits toward providing better programs for the inmates.
For six months, I’d stayed in town.
For six months, I hadn’t told Gil that I loved him.
For six long months, I still hadn’t made up my mind.
Stay.
Go.
Commit.
Fly free.
Sighing, I unlocked the letterbox and pulled out new mail.
Two letters.
One addressed to me and one to Justin.
And one magazine from Kohls showing their new line.
Instantly, my breath caught as I traced the glossy magazine covered in cellophane.
Thanks to reading the news article about Gil, his presence already wrapped around me.
But now...I almost felt his touch.
Felt his brush upon my skin.
His paint upon my body.
Tearing open the magazine, I stared at myself.
At the green camouflage transforming me from human to department store logo. Along with the mannequins in the fellow letters, it punched the shopper with a unique offering. A symbolic advertisement that said if you bought things from them, you too could become anything you wanted.
I sighed, my heart hurting as I relived the changing room jealousy, the tension while painting, the awfulness of watching the police steal him away.
I should’ve known then that Gil’s freedom was running out even though, at the time, it had been mine.
We’d both been victims of circumstances outside our control, and as I stood in Justin’s apartment stairwell, clutching a magazine where my naked body was hidden beneath my lover’s talent, I finally knew what I would do.
Finally knew the answer to the question I’d been too afraid to ask.
Where do I belong?
Easy.
With him.
With the man who’d terrified me, sacrificed me, almost died for me.
With the boy who’d claimed me, loved me, protected me.
With the body painter who saw past my colours and painted his own upon my heart.
NINETEEN MONTHS LATER
Chapter Thirty-Five
______________________________
Gil
TIME HAD DIFFERENT speeds.
For the circumstances you couldn’t accept, it went slow—tormenting and giving plenty of opportunity to either rebel against the current situation or finally accept the unacceptable.
For the events you could accept—the ones where joy was the main ingredient and life was good, time sped up, as if hurtling you toward the next catastrophe.
Prison had consisted of two versions of time.
The beginning was slow and miserable with no end in sight.
O kept chaperoning Olive for her weekly visits, and we stuck entirely to conversation about my daughter, her progress at school, and the life I was no longer a part of. The fifteen minutes always went far too fast, and the urge to grab O and demand she tell me what she wasn’t saying built and built until I’d tremble in my cell at night, desperate to know.