The Thief and the Gallery ✷ Chapter Six
Kitty Lovelace is a fucking bitch; but that's never been news.
She has had everything handed to her on a silver platter since she was nothing but a clumsy child and yet, even with all that her family dynasty's ever given her, she choses to slum it with the lowlife kids. Maybe it's a habit; maybe it's a rebellion. Either way, it sure as hell stirs things up on in that small little town.
In truth, nothing about it is heavenly and Kitty has experienced that firsthand. At thirteen, she'd sit around the twelve-seat dining room table in the midst of the Lovelace manor, guzzling down freshly squeezed juice, then, as soon as her mother's phone rung and she rushed to the kitchen to answer, she'd sneak the leftovers out and offer them to her friends. It was a wretched thing; Teddy and Kenji had never seen such a variety on a single plate. By fifteen, she was barely even home anymore. She preferred half-burnt, salty grilled corn and cheap beer anyway.
Perhaps she only grew to like them because they were the only handful of people on the entirety of Connecticut that did not treat her like an animal on display in a glass cage. They were two in the beginning, three with her, and she had fallen quite in ease with them a little too fast to predict it.
Instead of staying in Hartford until most of them were too drunk to handle another bitter, cold glass, they spent their mornings vandalizing the town and running away from police and their nights in a construction site that was never finished with crumpled cans of cheap beer littering the concrete—they always picked them up right afterwards, that was a no brainer. Kitty hadn't felt true laughter until she sat with them, bodies folded in half, laughter bellowing across the brick walls and ricocheting like flat rocks.
Though they didn't live in lavish homes with three cars, and they could barely afford a full meal everyday, Kitty found in them a certain comfort. TDHC, they called it. She was officially initiated at thirteen.
The rainwater had washed away her very first public art piece, but she had done so many since then she could barely remember its outline. She signed them all, a set of initials at the bottom, a metaphorical middle finger for the police officers who viewed it at some type of public property defacing.
The sheriff enjoyed her work, however, so she kept them in town and allowed Kitty to spread her masterpieces even further down the town. They were everywhere now: Doose's Market; the Town Square; the Independence Inn; and the highway. Hell, she even had her own doodle on the "Stars Hollow" sign. And whenever the rain or other phenomenons—human or natural—would come and scrub it away, she'd recreate it somewhere else.
In the wise words of a charming boy with stupid confidence and sarcasm in his lungs, she was one hell of a girl.
"Wait till you get to the top, Mariano," Kitty smirked, and her eyes flashed and glinted in the pale moonlight as she looked at Jess. A bag filled with all those cans of spray paint flung over her shoulder, "Then tell me how much of a girl I am."
She slapped his back amicably as she ran past him, but the contact of her warm palm against his back sent an electric shock through his shirt and all the way up to his spine, forcing him to jerk upright and follow, breathing heavily to try and regain his composure.
Kitty walked up a rusty ladder, stuck to the side of a dirty mural, with ardent determination and her tongue pulled between her teeth. Once they got to the top, she turned around with a grin and held her hands out vicariously. "What do you think, Mariano?" She asked, feeling a wave of pride wash over her at the sight of him utterly flabbergasted.
"This is..." It was a mural, a wide one that was probably visible all the way from Doose's Market. He runs his fingertips over the bricks, finding them smooth enough for his liking. His open mouth mounded into a smile," I mean," He pauses. "How did you even find this?"
"I have my ways," She shrugged and spoke the words in such a soft way he almost craved her saying his name, "Can you give me the purple?"
She took a moment to admire him as he searched in her overloaded bag, which had fallen to the ground unintentionally, too absorbed in the huge white space in front of her. His hair fell from one side to the other, not as perfectly moved by the wind as hers, but rather messy and with two paler, more brunette tones, under the bright moon.
He bent his arms, grabbing the last spray can stuck underneath all the rest and she could see a small tear in the neck of his shirt while he did it. His lips were drawn in a soft smile, like that of a young boy who had not yet seen anything wrong in the world. Although she knew that Jess was none of that, he was hard, callous and rough on the edges; but the moon and his presence gave him a look so soft that she could not find a way in her to look away.
Their fingers touch when he handed her the can of paint, and he nearly dropped it all over the concrete rooftop they were standing on. He asked her if that was the shade she wanted (it wasn't) and she says it was before hazardously spraying a stroke across the wall. He perched himself on top of the wall as she began spraying back and forth, shaking the container every now and then.
Kitty Lovelace was an art gallery; it was obvious. With the way every memory was hung in the pristine hallways of her brain, with underneath it a card of everything she memorized from that moment, it was almost uncanny. She was born to do art and give everywhere she resided a taste of untamed rebelliousness, the scent of cheap paint and coconut curl-cream and those goddamn lollipops lingering everywhere she went. She had one in-between her lips as she shaped the face of a man on the bricks, smearing paint everywhere on her exposed skin, making him laugh every time she looks up at him with a new color smushing her cheek or the sweaty bridge of her nose.
As for Jess Mariano, he was the scoundrel. The petty thief who couldn't afford himself an entrance, so he broke in and hoped she would never kick him out. He loved her art like someone who died holding a paintbrush, and he swore to himself that he would never let its light die. He would never forget what she looked like, basked in the moonlight, smiling at him with those eyes that were more than enough to send him in a drunken haze.
She doesn't look away from her painting nonetheless. There was a swirl she wanted to perfect, flattening the tip of the spray can every-which-way until the white had vanished and the sky was a soft blue instead. There was a boat she had sketched over the gradient, and she switched the can to black paint to begin outlining the bow.
When she pulled the can away from the brick surface, Jess whistled, an unspoken compliment, telling the wind just how beautiful he believed the girl's masterpiece to be.
Kitty hadn't caught a glimpse of him yet, but she still knew that he was standing right behind her. If she had focused a little bit more, she could have sworn she felt his heartbeat race, echoing through the concrete floor underneath their feet. "It isn't even done," she muttered, face unmoving, perfecting the gradient she had spent half an hour on.
That didn't bother him the slightest. He was still fascinated. When it came to her, he got too giddy way too quickly. "Still, Grant Wood would be proud," Jess insisted. She bit back the subtlest of smiles.
Kitty looked at the painting and sighed, tracing the smile lines with her index. When she noticed the paint had smudged on her fingertip, she wiped it off on her skin in a hurry.
"Who is he?" Jess approached her carefully, and spoke softly. Softer than she was used to, and it made her flinch lightly.
"You don't care," Kitty spoke, a sure statement.
"I don't," He confirmed. And it was as if they were hands, reaching for his jaw and clenching it shut.
Kitty sighed, and found herself putting down a can on the ground. She wiped her hands on the rag hanging from her bag. Jess asked: "Done for the day?" And she nodded, claiming she would finish it another day, which was code for getting bored of it. That wasn't hard to believe since Kitty had a habit of getting bored dangerously easily. Like the flip of a switch.
Kitty swallowed harshly and walked away, making a beeline to the edge of the roof. "Got any weed?" She wondered out loud, sitting down harshly at the edge. The soles of her shoes grazed the air and she swung them back and forth like a little kid.
"The day I say no is the day I die, Lovelace," Jess shrugged. He sat by and rolled a joint for her.
She waited for him to finish, then she grabbed it from his fingers to take the first hit. When Kitty exhaled the smoke, she threw her head back, eyes squeezed shut. "If I tell you, are you going to care? Because if you are I don't think—"
"I'll make sure to slap myself if I'm caring, Kitty." He nodded. After she'd taken a couple of long inhales, he grabbed the joint from her and put it in his mouth.
Kitty debated on it. She fiddled with her ring, then looked up to meet his eyes. He looked down at her though his lashes, examining the way her lips parted. The height difference was flagrant, even sitting down. "He's my dad."
He brought his hand up through his hair, calloused fingers running through brunette curls. "And why the boat?"
"Every summer for seven years, I would visit him in California," She paused, and bit her bottom lip nervously. "He lived right next to Santa Monica, and he loved fishing so every day we'd go on the boat."
"Why don't you go anymore?" He asked, frowning curiously.
She looked at her feet and tried to avoid his eyes, those all-consuming caramel-eyes of his, as well as she possibly could. The agony that rippled over the floorboards could send anyone into perpetual nightmares, terrors lurking in the shadows, poisoning them with syringes full of disaster, killing them slowly with their own pleads choking them.
You need to be more of a Lovelace, Katalina.
Stop crying, Lovelace's don't cry!
This is none of your business, Katalina.
You're so selfish, Katalina!
Penelope, he yelled, phone in his hand, You have to control your daughter, my dear.
Just stop talking, it's annoying.
What did I tell you, Katalina? What have you done, Katalina? Why are you so horrible, Katalina?
I love you, Katalina.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
Forgive me, Katalina.
It's all your fault, Katalina.
You're not a boy. You can't do this!
She was in a slaughter house, or it felt so. Her limbs pulled from corridor to corridor, room from room. Glass shatters, screams and pleads repeated like they meant nothing, like they had no use except to be reiterated in different tones of defeat, a sinister lullaby of a broken record, a broken girl.
"Katalina, darling," He would cry after, his shaky hands gripping her skin, tugging her body while she rolled like a rag doll.
"I forgive you."
She believed it. She was a fool, she knew. But she always forgave him, forgave his vulgarisms and malevolence and misogyny, he kissed her skin that he yelled so inhumanly minutes before and bid her goodnight as he stumbled for another drink.
Like it never happened, like it would never happen again— until it always did.
Silence settled over like a thick fog, and Kitty swallowed harshly, "Just got busy, I guess," she lied. She bit onto the perfectly-manicured nail of her thumb, then frowned at the cherry-red stains her lipstick left where her mouth pressed against it. Maybe a little nervously, she never really could tell with him. "But I just found out my dad wants to sue my mom for custody."
"Well, that fucking sucks," He muttered to himself. "He any good?"
Kitty shrugged, "There's a reason I picked my mom over him."
Jess licked his bottom lip nervously and looked down at the floor of the roof, brows furrowed at nothingness. "You're not, like . . . going to live with him, right?"
"If it came down to me, I wouldn't even want us to be related. Sometimes it's hard being a Lovelace," Kitty ran her hand through her hair again and sighed. It fell over her face messily, not like the pristine matter Jess was so used to.
Jess's face fell and he closed his eyes, riddled with guilt.
He knew that Kitty's life wasn't all as perfect as he made it out to be, all because she had money and adjacent resources.
She had a loving mother and he didn't. She used to have a loving father; he never did. So how was it fair, really?
How is it that all the good people have holes in their bodies where others used them as pin-cushions carelessly?
"Probably doesn't help, but my dad's a bit of a bitch, too," Jess said, shrugging. She didn't know why he was trying to make her feel better when she was her and he was him. "Left me when I was born."
"What happened to him?" She asked softly. Kitty didn't look up from the ground. The smell of a complex blend of woody made her damn-near dizzy, letting her know the initial high was settling in.
"Don't know," He shrugged, "He could've kicked the bucket as far as I know." He clenched his jaw and looked away, pressing his tongue against the inside of his molars almost nervously. "I thought you weren't supposed to care."
At those words, Kitty sighed. She almost forgot, even if it was for just a second, all about their messed up game or cat and mouse; lust (love) and hate. "I don't," she replied, almost exasperatedly. "Just trying to be civil since you live in my town and . . . stuff."
He scoffed and clicked his tongue. The cold breeze washed over them. An invisible hand drew a smile on Kitty's face, the softest of twitches, the slightest crinkle of the corner of her eyes. Their knuckles brushed over the polished concrete and the air that circled their legs taunted to knock their skin together. A couple of minutes passed and both their lungs were full of smoke.
"Hey, Lovelace?" He called softly.
She looked at him only to find that his eyes had already been on her. There was curiosity swimming in the white of them. She knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth, so she hummed at his call.
"Who's the boy you were with?" He asked.
A smile threatened to break her stoicalness when she looked at him again. "Didn't think you'd be the jealous type," She mused.
"I'm not. I'm just trying to be civil since I live in your town and . . . stuff," There was the hint of a smile as he spoke.
Kitty shook her head, grinning, unable to keep her laughter in. "His names Heath. He's my best friend."
"You sure about that?" He elbowed her softly, which made her scoff and snip the joint from his mouth, placing it in hers.
"No," She deadpanned, rubbing a smudge of paint on her wrist, "I'm never sure about anything with him, really."
Picture this: you see a boy, brunette and gazing up at the marble statue in front of your school. It is summer and you're getting the schedule for the new school year; your hair is pinned at the back of your head with a tortoiseshell claw-clip and you are wearing your new sundress, pale yellow with tiny pink flowers. He is nursing a water bottle and a map in his hands but looks lost, and you know your way around like the back of your hand because you've been here for five years, so you take the jump and offer him directions. He doesn't notice you at first, and bumps into you, spilling his entire water on your dress. You cry, and call him a bitch on accident. He asks if you're okay and you engage in arguments, telling him your sundress was new and expensive. You smell like white strawberry haze and mint and he smells like cinnamon and earth.
The following week you see him again; it's on a bench next to the lake in one of your mom's hotel this time round, and you have your latest annotated novel in your lap, and a straw hat tied with a silk ribbon over your hair, impossibly brunette from the sun. He is walking past, green plaid shirt and shorts, and waves. He asks if you want to join him, and you say yes, because it is summer and you have nothing better to do.
December 18th 2000, the day he bathed you when you cried toddler-tears, when your mother said she sometimes didn't find it in her to love you on your birthday. Like it was a chore, but Heath taking care of you was not. And you haven't been the same since.
Jess looked at her for a couple of seconds, and his lips parted. "You're in love with him, aren't you?"
Kitty's breath hitched in her throat. Immediately, he sensed her discomfort at the prospect of her being in love. But, all at once, she also felt a sense of relief that he was the first person to say something. She needed to guzzle a beer or two to muster up the courage to speak her mind, but she preferred to be sober with him anyway.
"I don't know," She replied, fixing her hair and pursing her lips. "Nobody really knows what love actually is."
He nodded as if he was agreeing with her point of view. He seemed to perceive love as tempest, leaving hearts battered and bruised. Ultimately, one's perspective on love is a deeply personal narrative, shaped by experiences that carve intricate patterns on the canvas of the heart. "And this Heath," he started, "You think he likes you?"
Kitty chuckled, shaking her head. "Heath doesn't do girlfriends. He's not a person who has feelings, he's just a man."
She wanted to slam her hands against the wall or burn some of Heath Carter's clothes, but she couldn't. The voice in the back of her head reminded her she couldn't express too many emotions at once. It had been ingrained into her. She couldn't be overly expressive or too emotionless. She had to be a lady of course, and a lady didn't throw tantrums or burn her best friends clothes just because he never wants to kiss her. A lady should sit up right and smile . . . always smile. So she did as she had been told all her life and collected herself. She swept all the scattered pieces of her soul into a small box and locked them away with a key.
"Just a man," He repeated her words, shaking his head in disbelief, grinning with all his teeth. It was probably the most blissful Kitty had ever seen Jess in all the days of knowing him. "So I have no feelings because I'm a man?"
Kitty finally cracked a smile, a genuine grin from ear to ear, showcasing her pearly teeth and she nodded, covering her face with her arms as her chest shook with laughter. Jess couldn't sworn he had access to the most genuine part of her. Her smile was the open door, her eyes were the soul.
So they laid there for another half an hour, the moon had been nothing but a reminder that they had to go soon, which they took quite lightly. It was filled with empty conversations under the moonlight and soft laughs at the autumn chilly wind. He focused on her breathing and the way her fingers twitched every-so-often, brushing against his in the process. He wanted too badly to grab her hand, and frowned at the urge that settled like buzzing white noise in the back of his brain.
Maybe it was fate bringing them together, calling upon the stars and moon and faraway rips in the continuum. Surely, in an alternate world, they weren't as pained as this one. Bleeding navy on pristine white lace, ink lines of mindless doodles following the trail left by polished, silver and gold rings; if paradise was a scenario, this would be it. It would be painted underneath the Stars Hollow sign and feed truth into the bitter lies.
Because neither was drunk or high or simply in need of a warm body to hold, they were willingly looking for company.
a/n
long one today guys wooo!!
i just want to make it clear that
they're not friends! they're just
acquaintances who know a little
too much abt each other!
as i said in the last chap they're
going to have lots of up & downs,
meaning that not only are they gonna
be getting along but also have so many
arguments it's gonna be crazyyy.
the only reason their relationship is like
that is bc kitty is a bitch yall 😭 kitty's
an ass and jess just has trust issues! but
pls bear w me theyre still going to have their
little cute moments and everything i swear!
anyways happy holidays everyone! 🎄💌