“I didn’t lead that one in Koala Limper.” Chantilly toyed with her hair.
When she smiled, the makeup caked on her face crumbled around the eyes. For a moment, I wanted to draw her in for a hug and tell her she’s unbelievably gorgeous where it matters… but then I remembered she had put me on actual time out yesterday for trying to share the elevator with her while she talked on the phone, and the best condolence I could offer her was that she’s pretty on the outside.
(For the record, eavesdropping on Chantilly gossiping sat on my to-do list somewhere between skydiving with a broken parachute and swallowing a brain-eating amoeba.)
“Kuala Lumpur,” Nash enunciated, lashing us all with his irritation. “It’s a city, not some cane-wielding marsupial, Chartreuse. For what I pay you, I expect competence.”
So this was what blue balls did to you. Turned you into an insufferable bastard. Nash wore impatience like a second skin sheathed around him. He hadn’t glanced at Chantilly once, but she jumped back at the scorch of his wrath.
Maybe after this, she would finally stop whining to Hannah about how much she wanted to be the next Mrs. Prescott. Her dreams included marrying Nash, having his babies, and swapping her design job for a life spent in spas and country clubs.
“Right.” Chantilly nodded once and mouthed the city name. “I’ll get it next time. Second time’s the charm.”
“Romanticizing failure.” He slid his eyes my way. “The hallmark of the participation trophy generation.”
Anyone else, and I would have stood up for her. Even Hannah and her general disdain for poor people would earn my defense. I bit my tongue. Chantilly glanced between us and Nash, her lips downturned. She read the room and swallowed her retort.
Nash pocketed his phone. “If we’re done with today’s attention-seeking antics, I’m continuing with the aesthetic. The penthouse will not be rented out, so there’s more leeway there. I want earth tones in the living room and suite, minimalist furnishings, and a sculpture against the North-facing wall.”
Chantilly fidgeted with the hem of her dress and pulled it away from her body. The sequins caught the lighting, reflecting a kaleidoscope of reds across Nash’s face, yet he didn’t look at her as she asked, “Of?”
“Sisyphus.”
“Sisyphus?” It escaped my lips as less of a question and more of a gasp.
Nash’s head snapped to mine. He studied me, a dip in between his brows as if he had tried and failed to figure me out. “Yes, Sisyphus. The thief.”
“The king,” I corrected, feeling defensive for Ben, who for some reason saw a part of himself in Sisyphus.
“No.” His face didn’t budge. He stood there, an immovable boulder, much like the one Sisyphus had been forced to carry for eternity. I wanted to be the one that chipped at its edges until it cracked and crumbled to dust. “The liar. The grifter. The con.”
My dad was a liar.
A grifter.
A con.
He had hurt people. Most importantly, he hurt Nash’s dad, and I would always suffer the guilt. Was that what Nash wanted me to know? He saw me the same way as he saw my dad? Was my punishment to search for a sculpture that had somehow become a slur against me?
Worse—the knowledge that Nash considered me a liar, too, chipped away at my sanity.
I raised my chin and didn’t waver as I argued, “Sisyphus is a king. A human who rules the winds. Cunning. Intelligent. Brave. A savior, who captured Death and freed humans from his clutches. All things you are not. I can understand why you’d want him as the focal piece of your penthouse, seeing as he is a reminder of the areas in which you are lacking.”
I’d gone too far. Broaching the subject of death reached a level of taboo that exceeded the idea of screwing him at eighteen while he’d been nearly thirty. It even surpassed the wrongness of showering in front of my boss and skipping work to fuck him.
“Sisyphus is a symbol of punishment,” Nash said easily, fixing his collar. Always adjusting his collar around me. I wondered if he smelled me on his fingertips or if he had washed me away the first chance he had gotten. “Of penance. Some people would do well to remember that, especially before stabbing others in the back.”
The dig hit harder than perhaps he had even intended. I had learned long ago that there was no such thing as a truly selfless act. People are hardwired to believe charity is selfless. In reality, charity is giving to yourself by giving to others. That’s not selfless. That’s penance.
I could make coats for the homeless, spend my free time volunteering, and give every inch of myself until I had nothing left, but there would always be a motive.
To feel better about myself.
To not hurt so much.
To right my wrongs.
To ease the guilt.
I wasn’t a good person, and I had fooled myself for too long, trying so desperately to be something my father and mother weren’t.
Nash waited for me to answer.
When I didn’t, he added, “Sisyphus will be your task. Find me the sculpture and have it placed against my wall. I want Sisyphus carrying the boulder on his back, pushing it up the wall, his expression anguished and the task Sisyphean.”
I didn’t know what he was trying to tell me, but his eyes showed me all I needed to know.
You are beneath me, they screamed.
And for once, I didn’t argue.
Not because I agreed, but because I saw beyond the scathing veneer. Nash was so broken, it was almost beautiful how he had erected walls of thorns and poison ivy around himself.
A haunted castle armed with insults as cannons; two staggering, hate-filled eyes as guards; and a lonely king who never abandoned his throne for fear it would collapse.
And me? I was the fallen princess destined to never step inside his fortress.
For some stupid, foolish, self-destructive reason, I ached at the thought.
A motor had gone off in my stomach.
At least, it sounded like it.
A symphony of growls rumbled again, detonating a chain reaction of head turns on the public bus. I wanted to care, but another long day of scouring an art gallery for a Sisyphus statue left me too drained.
I found two statues today at the same gallery. Both possessed the anguish Nash required and the boulder on top of Sisyphus’ shoulders, but whereas one depicted defeat, the other depicted success.
My legs had carried my way to an empty corridor as soon as I’d seen the last one, aware I should have reserved the defeated Sisyphus after the hell Nash had unleashed upon me, but knowing I wouldn’t.
I hid in the shadows until I collected myself, surprised by how much the statue had affected me. Autopilot led me to the curator. I requested a five-week hold on the statue. Waterboarding couldn’t get me to remember my walk to the bus stop, climbing the steps, or taking a seat. Even now, I remained affected by the sheer art.
The bus careened to another stop. I let my body sway with the movement. The four-year-old in the lavender tee peppered with yellow hearts barreled into my body like a bumper car. She readjusted herself into the bright blue plastic chair beside me, dredged a granola bar from her yellow Snow White backpack, and offered it to me.
“Your stomach is loud.” She wagged the bar in front of my face with pudgy fingers. It resembled a dog’s tail whipping back and forth. “It’s my favorite kind.”