Page 132 of The Breakup Artists

I chew on my bottom lip, studying my knees. “I just wish we could restart this summer, get a do-over on Summer Love, have a little more time.”

“I don’t,” he says, which weirdly is the most surprising statement of this whole conversation. “Because if things didn’t play out exactly the way they did, I’d never have had that conversation with you last night. And even if I got Ella to date me, it wouldn’t work because I’d still be closed off.”

I consider his words and the possibility that I’m holding on to some romanticized version of our lives, trying to trap myself in the amber of it. The problem is that even if I can rationalize it, it still feels like by moving away I’m losing something big and important.

“Besides,” he says, “you love creating businesses. And you love Berkeley, almost too much. Do you really think you won’t regret not giving it a chance?”

I frown at him, annoyed that he has a point, several actually. “Maybe,” I admit.

“Does that mean you’ll at least think about what I said?”

“I’ll think about it,” I concede, and even though I’m still unsure, I’m also grateful he’s giving me space to decide—something I’m not sure I’d do if the situation were reversed.

My phone dings and I grab it. But when August’s phone dings, too, I know what it is without looking—an email to our work account.

We glance at each other, an unspoken agreement to change the subject passing between us.

“Have you spoken to any of our clients?” he asks.

“No, have you?”

He shakes his head. “I think we should.”

I sigh. It seems today is all about mess maintenance. And truthfully, I’m here for it. Things have felt like they were spinning out of control for too long. “Okay, well, first we need a good email explaining everything and letting them know we’re here to talk.”

“And we should call some of them, the ones who saw the article, anyway.”

“Totally. We need a list,” I say, swiveling in his chair to grab a notepad. Only as I turn, my foot gets caught on a bag under his desk. I reach down, pulling the handle off my sandal strap and spotting the art store logo on the bag. Unable to resist, I peek inside.

“Something interesting?” he says, walking up behind me, and I sit up so fast that I clip the edge of his desk with my head and start cursing.

He smirks.

“That’s not funny,” I protest, rubbing the sore spot.

“You’re right, karma’s never funny.”

“Was that—”

“Yes, that’s the stuff from my day with Ella. And no, I didn’t throw it out for sentimental reasons,” he says.

“Okay, that’s it. Who are you and what did you do with my grumpy, secretive best friend?”

“I guess I yelled him out,” he says with no hint of sarcasm, and I realize I’m glimpsing the old August, the one before Des passed.

I push, just to see if he’s real. “You miss Ella, don’t you?”

He sighs. “More than I care to admit.”

My god, it’s him. It’s old August. It’s painting August and snuggling-with-Des August andtalkingAugust. “What can I do?” I ask.

* * *

The rest of the day passes quickly as August and I manage the fallout of our previous cases. The good news is that most cases are old and have moved on to better things. Daisy even tells us that she’s glad her best friends hired us. Of course, we also get some frustration, but that’s to be expected. Overall, though, I’d say people are understanding, which only makes me mourn the loss of Summer Love a little more. When we’ve put out all the major fires (except Ella of course), we decide to head into town for some dinner at our favorite restaurant, the one with the brick-oven pizzas with bubbly crust and good cheese.

“Menu?” the waitress offers as we sit down at a window table.

“We know what we want,” we say in unison.