Read Online Beyond the Pale Motel by Francesca Lia Block - Free Book Online Page A

grateful to him for that.
    In the one remaining picture, Cyan pulled chubby-baby Dash and a white Siberian-husky puppy in a small, red cart.
    If Dash and I had a child, he would have looked like the baby in the photo.
    â€œYou okay?” Cyan brought me out of the fantasy. “Eat your food.”
    A waitress walked by with a tray of beers and sangria, and I had to keep myself from staring. I was suddenly wicked thirsty and not for the mineral water he’d ordered. “Thanks. How’s your work going?”
    â€œI got some more gigs. Bands mostly. No one wants to pay much these days, though, except for weddings.”
    â€œBut you’re so good,” I said.
    He thanked me. “It’s just that with digital, everything’s different. People don’t understand the cost.”
    â€œHow’d you get into it?” I was trying hard not to think about Dash anymore.
    â€œTaking pictures as a kid, nonstop. I guess I got into it the way any artist starts doing art—to make the world look the way you want it to. Like in your blog. Isn’t that why you do hair, too?”
    I laughed. “Well, I don’t know if it’s an art. And no. It’s to make people feel better.”
    He scanned my face, tapping his cleft chin with his index finger. There was a slight growth of stubble. “Of course it is. I forgot who I was talking to for a second. The caretaker.” No sarcasm edged his voice.
    â€œYou should know. Why else would you be feeding me like this, checking up on me?”
    He shook his head no. “It’s for selfish reasons. I don’t want to lose my only sister. Free haircuts and everything.”
    â€œYou don’t really need much hair care.” I reached to touch his polished-smooth scalp but decided against it. Inappropriate, Catt . “I thought we’d established that.”
    â€œToo true. The male-pattern-baldness shave I can do myself. But still.”
    We made small talk for the rest of the evening, and I almost got away without asking about Dash, even after the “not losing me” comment. Got away with not asking, that is, until Cyan drove me home. I couldn’t help it; I invited him in and we sat at the kitchen table drinking tea from the Botanic Garden patterned cups he’d bought for our wedding present. A Björk song came on, “All Is Full of Love.” That did it.
    â€œOkay. What did Dash say?”
    Cyan rubbed his eyes with his fists. Tired. “Good song.”
    â€œThe best. Not to mention the Björk-bot video. I posted it on Love Monster once.”
    â€œI was wondering if you were going to ask.”
    It took me a moment to remember what we’d been talking about. Björk was an easier topic. “I tried not to.”
    â€œHe’s an asshole, Catt, I’m sorry. I know he’s my brother, but he’s screwing it up.”
    I looked away, feeling the tears again. Damn. “I don’t understand why.”
    â€œI don’t think he does, either. Fear? I don’t know. Cliché alert here. But you were the best thing that ever happened to him, seriously.”
    â€œNo. He was. To me.” I’d been safe, it seemed. Not anymore.
    Cyan sat quietly for a while, long fingers wrapping the mug with the purple and white passionflowers on it. Passiflora caerulea . My cup had the pink-blossomed virgin’s-bower vine clambering around its circumference.
    â€œWhat should I do?” I blurted.
    â€œJust take care of yourself. The way you do with everyone else. He’ll come back or he won’t, but either way you’ll have you. Which beats the alternative.”
    He was right. Why hadn’t I learned that? I thought of my mother, then, drinking too much, taking diet pills, not coming home until dawn, out on another date. While I lay awake in her bed that smelled of cigarettes, watching late-night TV, eating cornflakes for dinner. Telling myself, You’ll never