Free Kiss Kill Vanish by Jessica Martinez

thirsty. Lucien’s stingy with the drinks. Wait.” He stops, pulling the glass just out of my reach. “I can’t remember—are you legal?”
    I glare over my shoulder at him. Legal is eighteen here, but in practice, the Quebecois serve liquor to anyone with a pulse. “I’ve told you several times. I’m nineteen.” I pull the champagne from his hand and take a sip. Clearly, Marcel doesn’t care whether it’s my buttons or Lucien’s being pushed, just as long as he’s pissing someone off.
    â€œOh, right,” Marcel says. “ Nineteen. So aren’t you a little uncomfortable with all this?” He twirls his finger around at the paintings.
    â€œWhy would I be?”
    â€œIt’s a bit provocative, don’t you think?”
    â€œGo away,” Lucien interrupts. “You’re the only thing making Jane uncomfortable.”
    â€œI don’t know,” he says. “I bet she finds having you speak for her far more annoying.”
    â€œWhy are you even here?” Lucien asks.
    Marcel snorts. “Because Hugo invited me.”
    I’m silent, listening but not listening, staring at a lounging woman frozen in paint with her hands over her breasts, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she felt hated by Hugo, or if she pitied Hugo. Something in her expression reminds me a little of Ana. What an odd moment for homesickness to hit.
    â€œI think the better question,” Marcel continues, “is why did you come? Didn’t you just tell Dad you were done with all this?”
    â€œYou don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    â€œYeah, I do,” Marcel says. “He said you’d be back in the office doing his bidding Monday morning.”
    Lucien’s hand drops from my back as he spins around. “I don’t do his bidding.”
    Marcel raises an eyebrow and smirks.
    I see Lucien’s hand curl into a fist at his side, and for one glorious moment, I think he’s going to punch Marcel. I can’t think of a better path for this evening to take. I’d rather be at the emergency room, or even jail, than spend another minute in this room.
    But Lucien stops short of hitting him. He grabs Marcel’s lapel and drags him toward the entrance, muttering something I can’t hear through bared teeth. Ah, brotherly love. I watch them leave. Their faces are turned away, but something in Marcel’s scuffling swagger tells me he’s smiling.
    This is my chance. I’m alone, and if I conveniently lose myself in the thickening crowd, it could be a good hour before Lucien tracks me down. But that painting calls to me, and I have to look back at it. Yes. It does look a little like Ana.
    It’s more than homesickness this time. It’s a flood of grief that sweeps over me, threatening to knock me over. I used to have a life and a family and friends and a home. I wonder what Ana’s doing now. It takes everything to stay upright. I finish my champagne and slip into the crowd. I need to get as far away from that painting as I can.
    Off the main gallery, I find a hallway with openings to smaller rooms. Pieces by artists I don’t recognize fill the first, with only a few people milling around: a red-faced man chuckling into his cell phone; a couple huddled with their heads together, her satin-gloved hand tucked snugly under his arm. I wander around them and into the next room, my heels stinging from the forming blisters. I end up in front of a sculpture of hands—old hands, wrinkled and puckered like Papi’s. The memory only feeds the sadness that’s inflating in my chest, climbing up my throat. I leave without another glance.
    The next room is smaller and blessedly empty. Glare shields the contents of a single glass case in the center of the room, so I step closer to see what’s beneath. Music. Browning, tattered sheets of parchment, the notes minuscule and oddly square. Art