3 | Priorities

◇  KEL ◇  

"Dessert? Bought pudding and chocolate cake." Miles glanced at me.

"Thanks. Maybe later," I replied as I stood still. I gripped my phone, secretly anxious for a call or a text from an unregistered number. Jill's quick phone call surprised me, as much as it was informative. I had to keep it short and casual, or else Miles would think I was having another panic attack.

Part of me just didn't want Miles to notice anything unusual.  I glanced around the spacious basement.  Paint-smeared cans, scrapped lifesize canvasses, and soiled, overused rags littered the floor of the studio, and most of them were just days-old trash waiting to get stuffed into large garbage bags.

It was the only room in the house where my artistic friend didn't observe cleanliness and order to an impressive degree. It was also the only room where I was least welcomed in. Miles loved working on his art in total solitude, quiet and undisturbed.

White lights lit the basement, but not too brightly that I'd find myself squinting. He probably liked the fairly mysterious lighting. Maybe it helped him get in the mood to paint?  

He stood in the middle of the room now, and his pants that looked overused with patches of different paint colors.  "You're the only girl I know who doesn't like chocolates."

"I'm just really full," I replied. My stomach just protested at the thought of artificial flavorings and processed sugars. The juicy, meaty steak he'd cooked for me was enough to satiate my appetite.  "Want a slice? I'll get some for you."

"No."

Oh. Why was I in here again?  He kind of insisted that I come down here with him after I cleaned up the dishes.  Did he want to talk about something?  "Need help with something?"

"No."

His immediate reply made me sit still beside his paint cans. I stared at his broad back while he continued to paint. "So you...need to talk?"

Was he going to mention the kiss now? Right now?

"I think," Miles mumbled while his impressively precise hand painted dark strands on the canvas. "You should ask yourself that."

"Um...okay?" I scrunched my brows at his vague response.   

Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead every time he'd turn away from the canvas to grab something from his paint stash.  "So?" Miles stayed focused on the painting.

It featured a woman with long hair as dark as a raven, her slender body resting on something slanted. 

"What happened back at the show?"

"Nothing." I bit on my lip. My voice almost wavered. Sheesh. Such a terrible liar.  "Just the usual."

"Did anyone unwelcome approach you?" Miles turned to glance at me again. His grin was mild and quite forced. My odd behavior after the fashion show definitely piqued his curiosity.

"No. Just needed a proper meal, and a good night's sleep." I paused to chastise myself internally. I should just tell him what triggered my anxiety again. However, at the moment, I just didn't want to burden him with my personal problems.

Miles wouldn't complain, but I knew he's busy with his own career and I should just learn to deal with my own issues singlehandedly.  "Did an agent or director tell you to lose a few pounds again?"

"No."  I held back a smile;  he still thought I was having trouble eating properly.  He cared a lot, sometimes without directly saying or showing it.

"What'd Jill say?"

"Um...Mom drove Dad to the hospital again," I replied.

His long and careful hairlike strokes halted at my reply. Miles cleared his throat, as if surprised by the news. "Emergency?"

"Yeah. Breathing problems again, but...Mom said the pulmonologist will send him home in a few days. Or earlier. If his appetite improves and if he doesn't show any allergies to the new medication."

At my hesitant tone, Miles paused for a moment and studied the colorful painting. Seconds of awkward silence filled the room and made me uneasy.

I could tell he felt the same. Miles only kept eye contact to a minimum whenever he was anxious or bothered by something.

"You wanna go home?" He picked up a thicker brush. His back slouched and remained facing me while his paint-smeared fist clenched beside his hip.

"I can't." I absently rubbed my palm against my forehead, unsure of what else to say.  "I booked three shoots for next month.

"But, you wanna go home for a bit?"

"Not really," I said. "I need to save up more."

"If you need money, just say so."

His response almost made me sigh. "Not your obligation, but, thanks."

"Just say so if you need it for the bills or..." Miles didn't press on, but his tone denoted a fair amount of doubt.

"Thanks, but no thanks. Can we talk about something else?" I covered my face with my hands to muffle a long sigh. My mom wanted me home, for sure. But I still had jobs to finish this month and the next, commitments to fulfill, and paychecks to collect. I couldn't afford to just drop work to fly back to New York for a quick break and a family visit.

"Okay. Sorry." Miles turned away from the canvas to wipe his overworked fingers with an old rag. The look on his face appeared blank instead of sympathetic. He stepped closer to where I sat, waiting for me to start up another conversation—one that didn't involve surprising phone calls and family issues, perhaps.

"How's your dad?" I asked out of the blue. I tried to maintain eye contact with him. A part of me hoped he was in the mood to talk about his family, even though I wasn't in the mood to talk about mine.

I'd known him for roughly two years now (although we were merely acquaintances then) and I'd been living with him for almost one, but his being tightlipped about his own family still remained a mystery I had yet to unravel.

"What about 'em?" Miles looked away and grabbed something on the paint-stained table. He bunched up his shoulder-length dark brown hair with an elastic band.

"Just...you were talking to your dad and," I muttered. "I wasn't listening in, but..."

"He said they're coming over."

"Really? For your birthday?" I smiled when Miles only nodded. "How's your Pappa?"

"Fine," he mumbled. "Busy. As always."  He faced the canvas and ripped open a sachet of something he used for mixing oil colors.

A moment of silence prolonged when he didn't say anything else. "You don't visit or call them up," I remarked. I was just curious about his parents.

From what he'd shared about his wealthy family, I knew his parents barely had time for him as they were always tied up with the clan's longtime businesses.  Miles had also mentioned once or twice that his parents, more often than not, could get a little controlling and domineering.

But to what extent—I had yet to discover for myself.  "Why? I mean...I just noticed you don't talk to them often."

"Says the girl who never calls home and ran away twice now." Miles smirked and turned his attention back to his painting.

"Okay—  No. " I chuckled.  "That's an exaggeration." I shook my head and stood up from the chair to get closer to him.

The canvas he worked on stood far from me, but the strong smell of fresh paint and thinner assaulted my nose. I had to smother half of my face.

"Go rest up," Miles advised when he saw me covering my nose.

"What d'you want for your birthday?"

Instead of answering my question,  he ignored me and continued shading the outline of the faceless woman on the painting.

"I need to get you something. Help me out."

"Anything's fine."

"What about a new book?"  Why hadn't I thought of that sooner? He loved to read. Tonight I'd look for new and interesting novels online.  "No? What about cake?  Party stuff?" I asked when he didn't respond. "New boyfriend?"

My suggestion made him scoff.  "Right. 'Cause that's just what I need right now."

His evasive reply got me quiet. I stayed standing a few steps behind him.

Maybe he was already seeing someone new? But that was another story for another time. Clearly he wasn't in a chatty mood, and I knew he needed a couple more hours to complete the paintings.

"Are those finished?" I asked of the smaller paintings in the corner of the studio. I sat on the edge of the table with the disorderly collection of painting materials. I even saw a few knives on the desk, and other sharp tools whose purposes I didn't even want to know.

"Barely," Miles sighed. "The new deadlines are fuckin' exhausting."

"Okay. I'm out." I got back on my feet, stretched my aching back, and fumbled for my phone. "Ow!" I flinched when something sharp pricked my hand. "What the he—" I checked my hand.

On the side of my palm was a thin wound taking form.

For a noiseless few seconds, I did nothing but stare at the crooked line of bright red blood staining my pale skin. The warm liquid oozed and lined the side of my palm while a stinging pain registered in my head.

Wait. How did I cut myself?

My gasp must've been loud enough since Miles stopped whatever he was doing and rushed towards me in a blink.  "What?"

"I cut my hand."

"With what?" Miles looked around. He sighed when he saw the knife behind me just sitting on the table. He held my wrist gently after inspecting the wound. "I'll clean it up."

"No; it's fine." I pulled my hand out of his grip to stop him from touching my bloody hand. I dismissed his fussing and eyed the stairs, the only way out of his studio and this cold basement.

"It might get infected—"

"I'll just...I'll get the first aid kit upstairs."

"Mykaela—" Miles grabbed my forearm, and our small tug-of-war lasted some more seconds.

"It's nothing," I mumbled. The pain under my skin intensified, but I ignored it. The second I realized he was intent on taking care of it, I stopped resisting.

At that instant, the side of my injured palm hit his face, and before either of us could react, a bright red smear of my blood already stained his parted lips.

Oh you clumsy idiot, I chided myself.  My throat constricted at the sight of my own blood on his lips. "Jeez. I'm sorry."

Speechless beside me, Miles let go of my forearm. He lifted his paint-smudged fingers to his lips. He grinned at the splotch of my blood on his skin.  "Kinky. I like it."

On impulse, my feet took a couple steps back as my cheeks burned up at his comment.  "You're unbelievable." I put my hand behind me and faked a chuckle. 

"And you gotta stop giving your parents more reasons to hate me."

◇

"Been ringing you since five. You home?"

"Yeah." I yawned and dropped my blaring phone on the covers, stretching my limbs afterwards. The glue in my eyes made me regret staying up late the previous night.

The digital clock on the nightstand said it was way past lunch, and I should be busy in the kitchen right now, making meals for my roomie.

"What? Something up?" I mumbled in my stuporous state, putting the phone closer to my face.

"You talked to Miles?"

"Yeah. Why?" I let out another yawn. I'd been dreaming, thus my deep sleep, and, strangely, I could still recall details. It was not a happy dream, put it simply.

"Oh. Mom keeps asking me if you booked a flight."

"She knows I can't just leave and go on vacation," I muttered while rubbing the grogginess off my eyes.

"She's still expecting. No work today?" Jill asked on the other end after seconds of silence.

"Later. A quick shoot."

"You alone in the house?"

"Why? Miles didn't wake me up." I hauled the thick covers off of me and tried to sit up, my back and hair feeling sticky with sweat. "Probably finishing a painting in the basement. I was reading till four in the morning."

"A book?"

"Endocrinology Volume Two," I replied monotonously. "Is dad feeling better?"

"You're still studying every day?" my sister asked next.

"You know I don't like going out. And I get bored when he's too busy with his projects."  Miles hadn't had time to hang out lately due to our respective workloads; he'd been busy finishing new paintings for another art show in Milan. I shouldn't complain, but...sometimes I just missed hanging out with him. Which was funny because we literally lived under one roof.

"Been tryna reach you all morning." Jill sounded quite annoyed now.

"Sorry. I slept in," I sighed. "I think I read five chapters, and I was dreaming, like, heavily." In the dream, we were all at my Daddy Jim's funeral. Yikes.

"Nightmares again?"

"Dreamt about you and mom."

"What about?" Jill inquired, her tone more impatient than curious.

"We were at the cemetery with G. Then we went home. Next I was back here, but, not in Milan or here in Miles' house." I blinked repeatedly while trying to recollect the other parts of my bizarre and lengthy dream sequence. "Miles was fighting with his dad about something, and I was hiding in the car. Miles had blood all over his hands..."

"Really? Cemetery?"

"Yeah. Weird. Why'd you call?" I repeated the question before my head fell onto the pillows again.

"Mom called."

My sister's tone wasn't ominous or anything, but I couldn't ignore the sudden impression of malaise that snuck into my thoughts. Did something happen to our dad back home? It had been weeks since I'd talked to them, and now my gut told me I needed to give my mom a call. "Why?"

"Dad's back in the ICU."

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