Page 47 of Refrain

Or maybe I’ll just learn what it’s like to be Espisido. Someone other than the punk kid stuck doing the dirty work or holding the short end of the stick. Someone who crawls through life alone no matter how hard it knocks them down.

Like her, Miss Yellow. She’s here beneath my fingertips, judging me from the surface of a canvas. Yellow paint forms the base of her features, sharp and focused. After picking up a brush, I use hints of green and red to flesh out the details, extending the line of her mouth until she’s no longer judging me.

Just watching. She stares beyond my head, seeing what I can’t. Like the figure I catch from the corner of my eye, lurking beyond the screen door that leads into the backyard.

The man standing there is tall, towering nearly to the doorframe. A jacket shrouds his body, the hood drawn low over his face. The line of his jaw is visible, moving as he speaks.

“You’re still smoking,” he says. “I can smell that shit out here.”

Sure enough, there’s fresh ash smoking in a bowl on my table. I step back from my easel and swipe my hands along my pants. Then I grab the makeshift ashtray and pitch the ash into the trash.

“I didn’t think you’d know where to find me,” I admit without facing the door. I eye my shadow instead as it flickers along the wall opposite from where I stand. “Considering you haven’t come around in six months—”

“I’m always watching out for you,” he says. “You know that.”

“Do I?”

He doesn’t answer. Nervous energy builds in my muscles the longer the silence wears on.

Finally, I sigh. “You can come in.”

My back door always creaks, and I use the sharp squeal ascover to flick my lighter. At the same time, I snatch a fresh cig from a pile on the table. Two puffs don’t make it any easier to face him. The cold air ghosting the back of my neck warns me that this isn’t a hallucination, at least. That’s a good sign. Maybe.

Dante keeps his distance, watching me from his side of the room, I bet. Tallying up the differences in the punk he left behind and whoever he sees now.

“I’m not going to make excuses,” he says.

A bitter laugh comes out of me. “You might want to tell Arno that.”

“There’s something I’ve got to take care of,” he says like I didn’t speak at all. “Something I don’t want you being a part of—”

“I’m always a part of it.” His life. His mistakes. I’ve always been caught in the wake of Dante Vialle. To be fair, I’ve never complained. Until now. “And you never give me an answer.”

I look over my shoulder and find him standing awkwardly near the door, ready to slip out of it at a moment’s notice. Before he can, I take notice of the things I couldn’t before. He’s bulked up some, and his hair is longer, falling into his eyes, the main feature we share. His narrow in a way that signals that he’s not here for idle chitchat.

“So, what is it?” I ask. “What reason are you going to spew for bailing on me now?”

“Espi.” He shakes his head. “Look. I know you don’t understand—”

“Just tell me what you want.”

He sighs. Then he nods. “I need you to warn Arno that whatever he’s sticking his nose in will only bring him trouble.”

Like that narrows it down. Arno sticks his nose into everything.

“Why not warn him yourself?”

His mouth twitches into something that could be called a smile on someone else. “You know Arno. It takes more than talk to distract him from one of his schemes.”

“But I can?”

He shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his chest. “He listens to you.”

“And if I don’t?”

His mouth falls flat. “Nothing good. Trust me on that.”

“It’s kind of hard to do that lately,” I admit. God, I sound like such a whiny punk. So desperate for my big brother’s attention.

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