I always suspected I might not be a good person.
I tried to do the right things. I tried to be kind and helpful and honest. It never seemed to get me anywhere. Maybe because people could see that I had to try, that I was never naturally, effortlessly good.
As soon as I went to school, I knew I was odd. It wasn’t just the too-small clothing or the fact that my lunch bag was a plastic grocery bag with the same bag of chips in it day after day. I never ate the chips, because then I wouldn’t have anything to bring to school in the bag.
Other kids were poor. There was something uglier in me, something that repelled the other children. That made them whisper about me behind their hands and avoid me at recess.
I always thought it was sadness. Or the stories kids told, the few times anyone came over to my house and met my mother, and saw how we lived.
Now, I think … it was just me.
Randall saw it the moment we met. I was only seven. A grown man shouldn’t hate a little girl so much.
“What’s wrong?” Cole says, zeroing in on my private thoughts with his usual eerie precision.
“I don’t fit in here,” I mutter. “This changing room is bigger than my apartment.”
“You don’t live in that apartment anymore,” Cole says. And then, because I’m staring at the carpet, he grabs my face and forces me to look into his eyes. “You deserve to be here as much as anyone. More than anyone. You’re talented, Mara, really fucking talented. You’re already a star. Everyone else doesn’t know it yet, but I do. You’re going to make art that makes people think and cry and burn with envy.”
If anyone else said that, I would assume they were only trying to cheer me up.
Cole doesn’t say things to be nice.
I loved his art before I ever laid eyes on him. It spoke to me, long before we met. His opinion matters to me more than anyone’s.
My eyes burn, my whole face hot. I can’t allow myself to cry because I won’t do anything that would make Cole think less of me.
All I can do is grip his hands and press them harder into my face until the pain brings me back to earth.
Cole says, “Now try on these goddamned clothes and enjoy yourself—feel the fabric, it’s gorgeous … you’ll appreciate it more than anyone.”
Amore – Bebe Rexha
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Pulling on the first dress, I discover that Cole is right. He’s always right.
The clothes caress my skin. They fit my body like they were made for me—some heavy and comforting, others light and floating. The richness, the softness of the material … the way it clings and stretches and flares around me like the garments are alive, like they’ve fallen in love with me … I’ve never experienced anything like it.
Cole has impeccable taste. He seems to intuitively understand what colors and silhouettes suit me best. He’s chosen rich jewel tones, mostly solid fabrics, a few prints. The embellishments are rustic embroidery or sumptuous draping—nothing that would scratch or irritate me. He hasn’t picked out anything that would make me feel like I was cosplaying as a socialite. It’s all bohemian styles with vintage influences. He knows me. He knows what I like.
I had only intended to let him buy me a few things, but piece after piece piles up in his arms, each so lovely that I can’t seem to choose between them. Mini dresses with bell sleeves, satin rompers, peasant blouses, leather skirts, embroidered bell-bottom jeans …
I, too, have to stop looking at the price tags so I don’t make myself sick.
As he orders the sales clerk to ring it all up, I turn to him, forcing myself to meet his eyes even though I’m deeply embarrassed. I never meant to take charity from anyone. I always told myself I was strong and independent, that I could take care of myself.
“Thank you, Cole,” I say humbly. “Not just for the clothes … for everything you’ve done for me.”
“Feeling grateful, are you?” he says, those dark eyes glinting wickedly.
“I was …” I reply, already regretting it.
“Then why don’t you do me a small favor in return?”
Oh god.
“What is it?”
“Don’t worry, this will be fun.”
Cole’s idea of fun terrifies me.
He’s leading me back inside the changing room, though I already tried on all the clothes.
I try to keep my heart rate within range of a light jog instead of an all-out sprint.
“What are we doing?”
“Calm yourself, little Caravaggio. I just want you to wear something for me.”
He holds up what looks like a small piece of rubber—soft, curved, and about the size of my thumb.
“What is that?”
“It goes right in here …” Cole pushes me up against the wall, slipping the little piece of rubber down the front of my underwear. It nestles in place between my pussy lips. I can feel it, but the softness of the rubber prevents discomfort.
I have no idea the purpose of this. Still, I go along with it. Cole is so odd that almost nothing surprises me anymore.
Obediently, I follow him out so I can watch him swipe his credit card for a sum that eclipses my entire net worth, including the painting I just sold.
Breathless, I say, “Well, I guess we should head over to the studio …”
“Not even close,” Cole laughs.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re not done shopping.”
“What could you possibly—”
“Come on.” He grabs my hand, dragging me along.
So begins the second half of our shopping spree, wherein Cole attempts to clean out Neiman Marcus in a single afternoon. I tire of arguing with him long before he tires of swiping his card. He buys me earrings, necklaces, perfume, cosmetics, shoes, and a collection of lingerie so scandalous that it would make Joseph Corré blush.
I can hardly focus on the purchases because Cole is amusing himself in an entirely different way.
It starts as I’m sampling a selection of perfumes laid out by the willowy blonde who accosted us on our way in the door. She’s wafting a sample of Maison Francis Kurkdjian beneath my nose when I feel a sudden buzzing in my nether regions. I jerk upright, almost slicing off my nose via paper cut.
“What the hell!” I gasp.
I whirl around, finding Cole with his hands in his pockets and an artfully constructed expression of innocence on his face.
“Mosquito bite?” he says.
My face is burning and my knees are going wobbly beneath me. The buzzing has dialed down to a low thrum, steady and insistent. I see Cole’s hand shifting within his pocket as he manipulates the controls. The buzzing ramps up again, almost loud enough for the perfume counter lady to hear. I take several steps away from her, trying to squeeze my legs together, then quickly separate them again because that only makes it worse.
“Are you alright?” she asks me, her botoxed brow unable to wrinkle in concern.
“Could I … have some water?” I squeak.
I’m trying to get rid of her so I can yell at Cole.
Wheeling on him, I bark, “Turn that off!”
Instead, he turns it up.
I have to lean against the glass counter, cheeks burning and hands sweating.