Everything Between Us by Mila Ferrera Read Free Book Online Page A

at himself as well as the rest of us. And the possum seems to be there just to make you wonder why it’s there. Or maybe he’s being really literal, and he’s advising viewers not to glue their faces to possums. Which is good advice, if you think about it.
    It makes me smile even though I don’t want to. I don’t know if it’s good or bad or well-done or crap, but I think it’s clever and worth a second look.
    I spend time on each of his paintings, gorging myself on the vibrant, gleeful, perverse images, and as I do, a sense of dread wells up inside me. I didn’t want him to be good. Or interesting. I wanted him to be an over-sincere, sappy hack, because then his body and face would explain it all. I wanted his work to be obvious and dumb, because then I could dismiss it. And the funny thing is, a lot of it is obvious, and some of it is kind of dumb, but in all cases, it’s clear that’s exactly how he wants it to be, because there are too many sly flashes of cleverness for it to be anything else. It’s like he’s controlling what he offers and how much of it he’s willing to give. Like he has no intention of baring his soul to anyone, but he’ll put on a damn good show so you forget that’s what you wanted in the first place.
    So. Daniel Van Vliet might be a man-whore, but he is clearly not brainless. Far from it, unfortunately. I do a search for his name and find a couple of mentions in various places. It turns out we graduated from the same high school, four years apart. He was on the hockey team. He graduated from Becker two years ago with a BFA, and he was magna cum laude, which meant he didn’t mess around, not when it came to his grades, at least. I do an image search and find a picture of him, probably in high school or right after, at some party with his arm slung over the shoulders of a guy who looks a lot like Caleb McCallum. I wonder if they’re friends.
    I wonder why I’m wondering.
    Abruptly, I turn the iPad over and push myself off the bed. “What is wrong with me?” I mutter.
    Feeling too restless for my own skin, I head down the hall and into the living room, where I find my mom staring out the window, cradling a glass of wine against her chest. “Hi,” I say as I approach, not wanting to startle her.
    She looks over at me. “Estella,” she says, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. “Are you joining us for dinner?”
    “Us?”
    “Your father and I.” She sniffles and takes a generous sip of wine.
    “We’re eating together?” We never eat together. “Um, sure.”
    I follow her into the kitchen. The housekeeper has left something in the oven, and my mom yanks on oven mitts and pulls it out. A roasted chicken and potatoes.
    “I made a chocolate torte this morning,” I offer, pointing to my creation on the kitchen island. “Maybe we could have it for dessert?”
    She runs her hand down her side. “I’m trying to lose a few pounds.”
    “Is Stell here?” my father calls from the dining room, and I go out there to see him sitting at the head of the table, a glass of scotch in his hand. “Baby! How are you today? Ready to head back to school?”
    I take a step back. “No,” I say, the jolt of anxiety in my stomach making my voice sharp. The look of disappointment on his face blunts my tone. “I mean … not yet.” My dad was so proud when I got into the Ivy League, and I let his enthusiasm carry me along, right past all my doubts. Sometimes I wonder if I went just to please him—and to avoid a fight with my mom. Now I’m letting them both down. “I’m sorry, Dad,” I say softly. “I’m trying.”
     He waves his hand, pushing away all the bad feelings like he always does. “Your mother said you’ve taken up art.”
    The table’s already set, so I drop into the chair next to him. “I guess you could say that.” I don’t want to disappoint him again . I know he’s been worried about me.
    He pats my arm as I breathe in his familiar boozy scent. “Do you have any