Free Dancing Barefoot by Amber Lea Easton

arms across her chest, her face alive with mischief.  “If I didn’t know better, I would think you still love her. But of course, I do know better.” 
    “I am not in love with Jessica Moriarty.” He winced at the memory of her body against his, the taste of her mouth, the smell of spilled wine, the feel of paint against his skin.
    “Of course you’re not. If you were, you would be doing something irrational like giving a damn about what she’s doing with her art, obsessing about her hair, and accepting dangerous assignments to South America of all places.” She wrinkled her nose. "What are you going to do there anyway? Where in South America? You're not having anything to do with the drug cartels, I hope."
    “ I'm wet and in a bad mood. You should go.”  He walked back to the sofa and reached for the remote.  “I want to be alone.”
    She studied him through eyes the exact replica of his. “I have wondered about her for a long time, too. We were like sisters, she and I. We had a lot of fun in that apartment of yours. God, do you remember when she dared us all to skinny-dip in that fountain in Roma? She was the first in, always so daring. She had spirit. Fire. I loved her.”
    He remembered. Off with her clothes, she had danced in the fountain and dared them all to join her. She had been wild then. They had all followed...Carter, Ava, and him.  Drunk on cheap wine and laughing because they dared break the law with the audacity of youth, they had splashed and slipped and danced until the police had come around the corner. Screaming and stumbling, they had gathered their clothes and sprinted naked toward an alley. 
    Daring? Yes, she had been, but he doubted she was now. Who was the real Jessica? The one he'd fallen in love with in Italy or the one who hid her painting behind closed doors in Boston? He hated that she'd invaded his mind.
    “Did you invite her to your gallery opening? She would love that, I—”
    “ Can we change the subject, please?” Frustrated with the remote and with everyone in his life, he switched off the television and turned on the stereo. "She claims she went back, a month later, but I had already left. I don't believe her."
    "Of course you don't, that would change everything, wouldn't it?"
    "It changes nothing. I'm tired of discussing it."
    Ava kicked off her shoes and sat on the sofa n ext to him. Together they listened to music and watched the rain splatter against the windows. He dropped his head against the cushions and enjoyed the last cigarette he had in the house. 
    “She would enjoy seeing your work on display, I know she would,” Ava’s voi ce whispered through the room. “What did she call it?  Your someday?  I think that is—”
    “The woman who lives in Boston does not believe in somedays. Let it be.” He closed his eyes and listened to the pit pattering of rain against glass.   
    She was silent before he felt her stand from the sofa. Through half-closed eyes, he watched her retrieve her umbrella and stand by the door.
    “I think I might go to Boston a few days early, say hello. Sounds like she needs a fashion intervention, with the fancy clothes and short hair crisis.” 
    Always one to have the last word, Ava left him stewing in the emptiness of his apartment.
    * * *
     
    After a long ride on the T for yet another Julie emergency, she stood in front of her mom's house. The neighbor had called at dawn, saying that the police had been outside taking away some strange man. Drunk again, she assumed, as she walked up the stairs and unlocked the door at noon.
    She hadn't grown up here, wished she'd had the sort of childhood where she could talk about old friends and pets, the kind of home where she could find marks on the wall that highlighted her growth over the years. In a way, she did have that with the apartment she'd inherited from her grandmother, but it wasn't the same. Not really. That had always been her escape, but had never truly filled the