Page 2 of Cassie
The art lover
Cassie
Cassandra Williamson sat on her couch and stared at the wall. Tomorrow, that empty, bare spot would be filled with beauty.Tomorrow.
The artist’s gallery show ended yesterday, and from past experience, she knew it took the service two days to crate and move the sold pieces. The timing was predictable, happening like clockwork, something she deeply appreciated. Tomorrow she would have to open her door, allowing people she didn’t know entry into her house.Maybe they’ll send the same delivery men. Barry and his crew. I can hope. Scant solace in that thought. Even if she liked him, Barry would still be invading her sanctuary. She drew a shuddering breath through her nose and then slowly blew air back out her pursed lips.I can do this, she thought, fists clenched tightly, pressing hard against the tense muscles in her thighs.I can do this. Another hard-earned breath, pulling air through an ever-tightening constriction.
She flicked her gaze towards the door, and her heart raced faster, picking up more as she looked back to the empty space. Then—and the conscious focus shift allowed her to relax slightly—to the covered walls that surrounded her. Over the past seven years, she had collected six paintings from the same local artist. Six pieces of art which, when she looked at them, drew her out of herself and back into memories of the world for at least an evening, remembering the first moment she saw them.Love at first sight.She released a humorous snort, the near brush with panic slowly ebbing away, fingers of tension easing from around her lungs. Paintings initially glimpsed across a crowded room, the colors and composition of the art calling out to her with such impact that she couldn’t walk away without knowing she would take some of that beauty with her. Each of the six provided her with a window into a world she hardly inhabited any longer.
Not for almost ten years.
That thought snaked through her mind, bringing the panic back full force, freezing her into place, eyesight dimming around the edges as she fought for control.
Cassie had been dealing with the affliction of anxieties all her life. From the near-normal teenage angst of obsessing over socially awkward moments up through now, when her fears could practically paralyze her, they were always there. She had pushed through when she could, found comfort in draping herself in soothing rituals, and used coping strategies to smooth over the anxiety when she couldn’t. Lately, the struggle seemed harder than ever, and it took real work to find reasons to force herself out of the house. Cassie wanted to refuse to bow before the demands of her anxiety, needing to experience anything, trying to bull through dealing with even the most uncomfortable situations in an effort to keep her world from narrowing even more than it had.
The art shows were one way she’d determined she could draw herself out. But it couldn’t be just any shows.God, no. The art has to be worth it. She had gained that knowledge after dealing with horrifically public panic attacks in the middle of more than one gallery.
Logically she would know afterwards that not every eye had turned towards her. But, in that moment, the weight of imagined stares could nearly bow her in half, making it impossible to move even an inch towards the temporary reprieve and safety in a bathroom, or the emotional failure of an exit. She’d be stuck in the center of a room, face, by turns, burning red or pale as death, her breathing fast and loud or drawn as tiny, short pants that invited dancing black spots of hyperventilation along the edges of her vision, and her skin damp with sweat that smelled like terror.
Just the thought of a public attack raised her respiration rate and Cassie had to fight to bring herself under control, refusing to spiral while sitting on her own couch.I’m safe here. Safe. Safe. Safe. She held tight to a failing conviction that felt slippery as an oiled snake.I hate being like this.
She stared at the uncomplaining empty space on the wall, a blameless opening patiently waiting for delivery of the piece she bought. There’d been wide-open terrain surrounding the beautiful woman in the painting, but somehow those vast, unfenced fields hadn’t been frightening when captured in stillness on canvas. Ease with an expanse like that was an anomaly for her, and she looked forward to hours of exploring the shading and pigmentation the artist used.
The artist. Cassie let herself think of him for a moment. Isaiah Rogers, semireclusive phenomenon and conundrum. A man who could create impossibly beautiful art while living the life of a solitary biker, at times compared by art critics to eccentric masters of the past. She pushed from the couch and stood, still staring at the wall.Breathe.She attempted to pull a ritual into play as she consciously ran the script through in her head.
Tomorrow morning I will hear the doorbell and open the door. Nothing bad will happen.
I will let the men in, and they will hang my new piece in place. Then they will leave. Nothing bad will happen.
Things will go just as they always have with the deliveries. Nothing bad will happen.
Their job. They will do their job, and then they will leave. And, nothing bad will happen to me. Never again.
***
Her sleep that night was fitful, uneasy, and she woke several times. Cassie found herself checking the clock on her phone each time to gauge how much time had to be endured before she could reasonably allow herself to get up.
Finally. She turned off the unused alarm two minutes before it would have sounded. A confirmation e-mail received from the service last night had informed her that the deliverymen would be here between eight and ten, which meant she had two and a half hours to prepare. To get ready, as if for war.
With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing the already cramping muscles in her legs, and began the first of her normal routines. This one was a pep talk, a way to shore up her psyche after the edges of sleep had scraped off into the raw and bruised shadows of her memories.
“Be a fucking lion,” she spoke softly, rubbing her thighs with deliberately stiffened fingers, working the last of the ache away. Anxiety and tension had a way of turning any bed uncomfortable, as rock-hard muscles made themselves known. She closed her eyes for a moment and pulled in a breath, then opened them as she blew it out and said, “Become the person you want to see in the mirror.”
Each phrase paired with a familiar motion, working together to center her mind in preparation for the day.
Rocking her head side to side, she stretched her neck and settled back into place before saying, “Color outside the lines.” Tipping her head far back, she held the position until muscles in her throat complained about the prolonged strain, then whispered to the ceiling, “Take back your power. They get nothing.”
Cassie opened her eyes and glanced at the sign over the door, gaze tracking along each letter as she read the words aloud. “Actually, I just woke up one day and decided I didn’t want to feel like that anymore, or ever again. So, I changed. Just. Like. That.”
By eight, she was standing in the dining room, situated halfway between the kitchen and front door, waiting. Sweating and shaking, but holding her position with counterfeit courage.
When the doorbell finally rang, she was startled into paralysis for a moment, unable to move forward as a desperate need to run away clawed at her resolve. Needing a reminder to break the stasis she forced herself to say aloud, “Nothing bad will happen.” Drawing a deep breath, Cassie wrapped herself in the mental reminder of that certainty and forced her feet to take the first step, then another.
Reach out, she thought as she matched action to her mental prompt and turned the knob.Come on, Cassie. Suck it up. Nothing bad is gonna happen. Not today. With a smile plastered on her face, she prepared to fake normal as hard as she could for the next thirty minutes, the amount of time it usually took the crew to hang the frame. That smile stuttered and faded as the door swung open and she saw a stranger standing just on the other side of the screen door.
Her gaze flicked back and forth, trying to make sense out of the change from what she’d expected. The movers were back a small distance from the door, more near to the descending steps than the opening into her home. Those were faces she knew. These were the men the service had sent to her before. Known, and relatively safe. Relatively.
But, right in front of her, between her and the known men was Isaiah Rogers. The artist. Reflexively, her legs took one step back before she could halt the retreat.Coward, she scolded herself. “What are you doing here?” The question leapt from her lips, and when she realized she’d said it aloud, she slapped her palm over her mouth.Rude much? Her cheeks heated at her verbal mistake, and she felt flaming red climbing her features until she imagined she looked like a ripe tomato.Shit. Shit, shit, shit.She knew air was rushing in and out of her nose but already felt lightheaded, the gray fog of panic swirling along the edges of her vision. In an effort to regain control, she dropped her gaze to stare at the bottom panel of the door.Why is he here?Sounds of boot soles scraping on her porch ratcheted up her fear, because she assumed the men behind him were preparing to leave.No, no. No, please no. Not with her painting.They can’t, I need her.
