People are drawn together in the strangest ways but sometimes we have to look deeper into what is below the surface because things are not always what they seem. When a girl goes missing unexpectedly, it is the determination of those closest to her...
Kellan Taylor stood next to the sculpture. Limbs elongated draped over the smooth seamless skin. Garments waxed to the curves, hugging to stone flesh. Features shadowed yet no less lovely. Her face remainedhidden with the long flowing hair and he had used poetic license to make it longer than it was, petite fingers coyly masking what little of her face remained. He called it "The Weeping Girl." His gut told him this was his best yet and it was all because of her. Kellan's heart was on show here, his love shone and his soul was sold but he didn't care. It was still a bittersweet cherished memory.
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"Kellan, who is the model for the bronze. She's beautiful. Tell me whose the latest muse," the art critic asked as the camera flashed, the photographer circled the statue, clicking away furiously.
"It's a secret. The model asked to keep her identity hidden," Kellan crossed his fingers and tucked them in his back pocket, "sometimes a girl ..." He waved his hand as if trying to conjure the appropriate words from thin air. The movement a combination of show and distraction.
"You mean, she wants no one to know she slept with you Kellan. Can't say I blame you. Wow, what a body. You lucky sod! You hair of the dog. Up to your old ways then Kellan," the critic smiled, clapping Kellan on the back.
Kellan sucked in air between clenched teeth, as his face contorted and his eyes became dark. He caught himself, realizing his mistake and a fake smile surfaced with all the goodwill he could muster.
"I don't know what you mean Alistair but not everyone wants their private life splashed over the tabloids and if you are referring to my youth, those days are gone. I'm getting old and grey you know, mate," Kellan returned the smile, playing the part and tapping Alistair on the shoulder. "You know not all of us want to play the stag forever," Kellan added as a little dig, one he couldn't resist. They had history, and regardless of the accolades the critic always gave him over the years, he disgusted Kellan. Going from bed to bed, despite being married many a year.
Alistair looked at his colleague behind the camera, "cut that part of the segment, nowt!" The acidity licked his tongue.
Kellen turned his head back to the bronze, the hair traveled down the girl's back and spread out at the ends to resemble a fishtail. He wanted to keep who she was secret but show her what she meant to him. On the back of her shoulder was a small Ariel tattoo, a nod to her childhood heroine which had inspired him to shape the hair ends.
No one had ever affected him like she had. There was something about her. When they were kids, they used to go to the same school, he was a few years older and they ran in different circles. If he had to classify it anyway, she came from means and his was of a lesser upbringing. His mother took off for extended periods of time with a no good after the other, who delivered nothing but broken promises. At some point, she would return broke, barely conscious, and drunk before she hooked with another deadbeat.
Needless to say, he never had the nerve to approach her then. She was on the social planning committee, student council - popular - and he was poor. Without a parental figure or any money, he had no one to steer him out of trouble and he ended up in Juvenile Court, trying to survive, stealing so he could buy food. So he admired her from afar, their lungs never breathing the same air.
