Page 91 of In the Frame

I listen carefully, nodding.

“Okay,” I say softly. “I understand more now. Thanks for telling me about Gabriel. I can only imagine how much he relies on you.”

Florian nods, his expression hard to read after his reveal. Vulnerable.

“But before you go…”

He looks at me in question, as he started to turn away.

“Those paintings you liked so much. Would you like to see them again?”

“I would love to,” Florian says instantly. There’s not a moment of hesitation.

I go to the storage wall, pull out the first Brighton beach painting, and prop it against the wall before I place the second beside it. They’re good-sized canvases, not huge, manageable for one person to move. But they’re enough to have presence. And they feel like the height of summer.

“Gorgeous,” Florian confirms wistfully, hands in his pockets. “These are so you. You’re like the sun.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that…” I give him a sidelong glance. “I’ve thought about it, and I’ve decided you can buy the paintings. If you still want them.”

He blinks. “Matty. Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel obligated⁠—”

“I think they’re meant to be with you.”

Florian shivers. He’s quiet. “Thank you.”

“We can figure out payment another time. But you can take them now. Let me just wrap them quickly in some paper and cardboard for safe transport. I’ve got a box the right size.”

Florian nods. Working together, he helps me wrap up the paintings and package them for safe transport. We take the box downstairs and load it into his car.

“Do you want some breakfast? Lunch?” I ask, squinting in the brightness of the day as we head back in for Florian to get his bag.

He shakes his head. “No, I’d better head out now.”

“Okay.”

Florian collects his overnight bag from upstairs and his tux in a garment bag he brought in from the car (always prepared), and I wait downstairs. I walk him out again, holding my hand against the brightness, watching him put his bag in the back seat. He hesitates by the driver’s door. “I… don’t know where this leaves us.”

I shake my head, at a loss. “I don’t know either. I think love isn’t enough.” My voice is low, urgent. “No matter how I feel. You’re doing what you’re doing. And I need to figure out what I’m doing with my life.”

Florian’s expression crumples. He nods. “You know I would have waited for you, Matty.”

“I know. You’re amazing. And also, terrible.” I smile wryly at him, my eyes stinging, and I fold my arms tight across my chest. “Go. Before I start yelling at you again.”

The last smile he gives me from behind the wheel breaks my heart. And I stand there, watching him ’til his black car disappears from view down the lane. And when Mum comes home and finds me hiding in my room, I break down on her shoulder.

Chapter Fifty

Over the next couple of weeks, I go through the motions of working at the pub and occasionally heading to the Rose in Brighton to help my friends prepare for the rally. I help them buy supplies, plan logistics, paint signs. Logically, I know there’s no way a bunch of artists are going to raise two million pounds at a single pub night and auction to save the Rose. I doubt we’d even come up with the deposit. If we’re lucky, we’ll get local media coverage.

But I don’t say anything about this to anyone.

Over breakfast, on most mornings, Mum keeps giving me concerned looks over toast and tea. Thankfully, twin-related antics keep her from getting into any deep dives. Then I would vanish for a few hours before my shift at the pub and work late. Even exhausted, I can’t sleep when I go to bed. There are mornings when I get up and don’t feel like I’ve slept at all.

On a Saturday morning in a blur, I take the train to Brighton and meet Noah and Raheem at the Rose. Ellie’s in fine form, her dark auburn hair up on her head, fringe in her eyes. She brushes it back, gives me a welcoming smile, and points me decisively over to the waiting signboards propped against the wall of her studio.

She has pages of possible slogans written in a smallish sketchbook, with a tally beside each one if it’s already been used and how many times. I muse through the offerings, trying my hardest not to think of Florian. Or feeling like I’m faced with an impossible choice: betraying my heart or betraying my friends.

Turning the page, I select the classic and simple “Save the Rose / Fund the Arts!” which is a message I can get behind. Despite the alliteration of “Down with Developers” and the basic “Go back to London,” it makes me feel too heavy.