Pretty, Dark and Dirty

“Don’t worry about it.” He ripped a handful of paper towels from the roll under the cupboard and knelt to help me collect the pieces. “Careful. Don’t use your bare hands.”

“I’m fine.” I sidestepped to toss the pieces into the trash. Pain shot through the base of my right foot.

I shouted.

“Did you cut yourself?” Mason asked.

“My heel.” I stood on one foot, afraid to put pressure on the wound.

He grabbed another bunch of paper towels, scooped me into his arms, and carried me to the futon like I weighed nothing.

“Hold these under your heel,” he said, handing me the paper towels.

I saw the inch-long chunk of glass sticking out of my foot and winced. Mason returned to the sink, crunching glass beneath his thick-soled boots, and pulled a first aid kit from the cupboard. He dragged the chair he’d been sketching from over to the futon and rested my foot in his lap.

“You might want to bite down on something.” He withdrew a pair of tweezers from the kit.

I closed my eyes and leaned back onto my elbows. A jolt of pain pierced my calf as he worked to free the chunk of glass from my flesh. I swore, then clenched my teeth against the throbbing in my foot.

“It doesn’t look deep,” he said. Something cold and wet that stung like the fire of a thousand suns slid over my heel. “Try to hold still.”

“Sorry. It hurts so bad.” I opened my eyes and a flood of longing filled my chest like oxygen. Memories of my father soothing my bumps and bruises, bandaging paper cuts.

He curved a hand over my ankle as he cleaned the wound; I tried not to think about where those fingers had been. He dabbed a glob of antiseptic, cool and tacky, onto the cut, then layered the area with gauze and secured the dressing with medical tape.

“You should stay off your foot for the next day or two,” he said. “I’ll help you into the apartment.”

He held out his hand. I inhaled a ragged breath and accepted his help.

“Thanks,” I said, wrapping my arm around his shoulders as he lifted me. “Good thing you weren’t planning on having me stand for the painting.”

Mason stayed quiet as we made our way to the door. “I’ve changed my mind about that, Jett. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have you model for me.”

“Oh,” I said, the word why sticking like a lump in my throat.

I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve been relieved. But all I felt was disappointment, like he was abandoning me all over again.

“Is it...” I couldn’t make myself say the words, is it because I made you hard? “Did I do something wrong?”

“No. You were perfect.” He let us into the apartment. “I shouldn’t have asked you to do that.”

“But I offered.”

“It doesn’t matter.” He lowered me onto the couch cushion. “Anyway, it’s better for you if you’re not involved in my work.”

“Better for me how?”

“Too much controversy.”

“Since when are you shy about controversy?”

Mason pushed the ottoman closer so I could rest my foot on it. “I’m not. But it wouldn’t fall solely on me. It would mark your career before it even started. Better they see you as an artist first, and as my daughter second. Not as my subject."

“Who’s they?”

“Critics, dealers, other artists.”

“But I don’t care how they see me.” I couldn’t believe I was fighting him on this, considering how badly the session had rattled me. But when the alternative was moving out of Mason’s light and back to the darkness... I couldn’t let that happen.