Page 136 of The Breakup Artists

I lift my hands and drop them again. “Fine.”

“Fine?” he asks, and the hopefulness of his tone pushes me right over the edge.

“Maybewe can hang out tomorrow.”

He reaches out like he’s going to grab me and twirl me in the air but remembers himself at the last moment and drops his arms. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Woo-hoo!” Bentley yells, raising his fist to the sky.

“Now go,” I say, trying to resist the urge to grin at him. The truth is I missed him. A lot. And any other week I’d have tried to talk things out with him, to understand fully before I wrote him off. But this week was too much. It strained me in every way possible, compounding and confusing all my problems until I couldn’t tease them apart and I just wanted to torch everything.

“Going,” he confirms, backstepping for a few seconds to get one last look at me.

I head toward the restaurant, making eye contact with August through the window. He shakes his head in a way that says,Oh great, this again. But for some reason I don’t worry about it the way I once did. Things are different with August. Good different.

67

august

The early-morning sun streams through my open window, and an ocean-scented breeze billows my curtains. My room doesn’t feel like the confining trap it did a few days ago, but lighter and more breathable. And I feel lighter, too, like a version of myself I forgot existed. I even have more energy, as though all the time I spent repressing parts of myself took something out of me I was unaware of. Even though it’s early, I don’t try to fall back asleep. I take a deep breath, enjoying this new August in his new room with his new perspective.

The conversations Tiny and I had with old cases yesterday play in my head. It was strangely nice to check in with them and hear how everyone’s lives have changed for the better, and even more so to do it as August. Of course, there’s one person we haven’t talked to yet—Ella.

The moment I think her name, I audibly exhale. Ella’s dad has yet to return our calls, and calling her won’t work. Even if it would, I don’t want to talk to her about this over the phone.

My eyes flit to the bag of craft supplies under my desk, and while I know that completing our art challenge isn’t an answer by a long shot, it might be a starting place. So I swipe the bag, open it, and stare down at the contents. Only there’s something in the bag I wasn’t expecting, peeking out from under the fabric. My heart thumps and my breath quickens—Ella bought me drawing pencils?

The realization hits me hard. Maybe because she unknowingly got my favorite kind. Or maybe because it reminds me of something Des would have done. And even though everything with her is uncertain, there’s one thing I know—if Bentley can make a sad-puppy sign, I can do one better. I dump the bag of supplies onto my desk and get to work.

The act of making something is calming, meditative almost. It does what I’d hoped—it lets me think. But the conclusion I come to, or rather the idea I come up with, is nuts.

“Thoughts, Swee?” I ask.

He grooms his paw in response as if to say,I cannot answer that because I don’t participate in activities that take place off this bed.

After a half hour of pacing and an inability to come up with anything better, I give in and get dressed. I text Tiny that I’m coming over and head downstairs.

I pull a mug from the cupboard, and when I’m halfway through pouring my coffee, Mom walks in.

“August?” she says, like she’s not sure if I’m real. To be fair, I’ve barely left my room for the past week.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I ask, also unsure.

“It’s Saturday,” she replies. “I was just going through my artwork.”

“Oh,” is all I say.

“The director from the gallery called. She’s starting a new exhibit, and she wants to showcase some of my pieces.” There isn’t the twirling and declaring that we’ll be millionaires by the end of the summer that I’d expect. She’s almost quiet.

“That’s great,” I say and mean it. It’s been more than ten years since Mom had a show. And the gallery in town does good, consistent business with the tourists. While it isn’t a surefire solution to our problems, it will definitely help.

“Yeah, it is,” she says. Again, no giddy twirling. “Can we talk?”

I hesitate. “Um.”

“It wasn’t really a request,” she says and gestures at the round kitchen table.