Falling Under by Danielle Younge-Ullman Page A

gotta be disciplined, do it every day.”
    “And?”
    “And you gotta stop drinking—it’s shit for you, babe, and it’s gonna get worse.”
    “Maybe. What else?”
    “Not much—just I own what you produce.” “What if I don’t produce anything?”
    “No paintings, no money.” “What if you don’t like any of it?”
    “Tough shit for me then, but I doubt it’ll happen, babe.” I moved to sit on the couch.
    “Sal,” I said, “I don’t know if I can. I... it’s painful to paint the kind of stuff I was doing early on, it puts me in a bad place.” “Hey, start simple, you know? Abstract. I like that rectangular stuff, for example. Could you do more of that?”
    I considered. “Maybe, but.. .” “Come on, whaddya say?”
    Of course I said no.
    Of course he refused my refusal and insisted I think about it. Then he had a contract drawn up and couriered it to me with a big check for my completed works to show his good faith—a check big enough for a down payment, if only for a tiny bungalow in the east end.
    Coincidentally, I got fired because Mrs. Teimen on the fifth floor said she smelled alcohol on my breath and told the
    management she thought I was “fraternizing” with one of the residents. All true, unfortunately.
    I took the contract to my mom’s lawyer, who suggested a few changes, including a renewal clause that would allow us to reevaluate annually.
    It was time to get my shit together.
    Sal’s smile practically cracked his face open when I pre- sented him with the modified contract. We signed it, got it witnessed, and went to dinner to celebrate.
    “I promise you, no more drinking after tonight,” I told him. “You’re right about that.”
    “Good girl,” he said, and ordered a bottle of Dom.
    We screwed like it was our final night on earth, until at last I slumped over him and buried my face in his neck.
    “So, babe... That’s it, hunh?” he said. “For the fucking, I mean.”
    His voice was hoarse and his eyes knowing.
    I ducked my head, swallowed. “Probably. Yeah. Don’t you think?”
    “I figured that’d be the deal when you said yes.” “Well, you know, otherwise it’s a little.. .”
    “I know, babe, I know.” “Okay.”
    “This wasn’t gonna be forever anyway.”
    “No.” I smiled at him and then lay my head on his chest. “I’ll miss ya. I kinda love ya.”
    My throat tightened. “Me too,” I said.
    “And you’re a great fuck. Don’t ever let anyone tell ya different.”
    Such a charmer, that Sal.
    And he basically saved my life, so I try not to disap- point him.
    He likes the five new pieces, pats me on the back. I help him carry them to the trunk of his SUV.
    “These’ll do good,” he says, and then kisses my cheeks again, gets into the vehicle, and drives away.

    Chapter Fifteen

    Y ou should be grounded.
    If you were grounded, there would be something to think about besides Bernadette not talking to you for a week. It feels like a year.
    And what kind of mother ignores the fact that her daugh- ter comes home drunk, stoned and deflowered (not that she knows that part), and wipes out on the stairs in the wee hours of the morning?
    “Am I not in trouble or something?” you finally ask. Mom’s eyebrows lift and she gazes at you over the “Num-
    ber One Mom” coffee mug you gave her last year. “Is there a number two?” she’d asked, and you’d both laughed.
    “Trouble? What for?” she asks.
    “For last weekend. I figured I’d be grounded.”
    “No,” she says and goes back to the work she’s doing at the breakfast table.
    “But I was drunk.”
    “Uh huh.” She doesn’t even look up. “And stoned.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “Well . . .” You stare at her, willing her to look up, to re- spond in some way.
    Nothing. Damn her!
    “Well, if you did ground me, I guess it would be hard to enforce.”
    “Why’s that?” she says, and scribbles.
    “You’d have to actually be home , you know, to ground me. You’d have to actually give