I wanted to skulk down the hall to make sure she was okay. Which was ridiculous, because I didn’t know this girl. Didn’t owe her anything. And she’d destroyed months of work. But for some reason, it felt less noble and more creepy, so I stayed put by the door, standing guard.
There was something about the way she’d held it together—even while falling apart—that stuck with me. The stubborn tilt of her chin. How she’d offered to pay six grand she clearly didn’t have, even if it was in Monopoly money. The way her hands shook when she took the water bottle.
What kind of night ends barefoot in an alley, trying to break into a wine shop?
“She’s cute, though,” Lee said, grinning like he could read my mind.
I shot him a look. “Don’t.”
“Too late,” he winked. “You’re already thinking about it.”
He wasn’t wrong. And I hated that.
Suddenly needing air, I turned the handle and stepped back outside. The heat pressed in again, thick and still. That same mix of scorched metal, sour wine, and rot clung to the air. From around the corner came the muffled sounds of music and laughter—easy, familiar noise from people whose lives hadn’t been cracked open on the concrete.
Lee stepped outside and squeezed my shoulder as he passed. “Try not to fall in love while I head next door for a refill.”
He walked off toward the front of the shop. I stayed, though every instinct I had was screaming at me to run in the opposite direction of whatever was happening in my studio.
I leaned over to assess the damage. The sculpture was still standing. It wasn’t ruined, just interrupted. I’d clean it, fix what needed fixing, and bring it back to what it was supposed to be, even though I still had no idea what that was.
I kept thinking about the look on her face. That first second when she realized what she’d done. Not only the mess, but the meaning of it. She didn’t just wreck my work, she landed in the middle of it and managed to take what was mine and make it hers, just by showing up and falling apart.
I didn’t know what to do with that yet. But a part of me knew she wasn’t done causing trouble, and I wasn’t done cleaning up the mess.
Chapter Five
TALLY
Thestreaky,paint-splatteredbathroommirror wasn’t doing me any favors. I braced my hands against the edge of the sink and took a half-hearted look at myself. Not my full reflection, not yet. My eyes stayed half-lidded, like I could soften the blow by only taking in small pieces of myself at a time.
My dress was a mess.Iwas a mess. The neckline had slipped to one side, the hem looked like it had been through a wind tunnel, and the whole thing clung in places it shouldn’t, while sagging in places that only made me feel worse. So much for fun and flirty. The fabric, once smooth and light, was now wrinkled and damp. My curls had surrendered to the humidity, ballooninginto an unpredictable nest of knots and plastering themselves to my forehead. My skin was flushed, my eyes glassy, and there was a smear of goo near my collarbone I wasn’t brave enough to identify.
I reached for a paper towel, tore off too many, and dabbed under my eyes. It didn’t help. Nothing really would at this point.
This was the part where I would usually come up with a joke or a distraction. A shiny personality quip to wave around so no one would notice the parts of me falling apart before I did what I always did.
Run away.Start over.From experience, Iceland was very nice this time of year.
But there was no one to run from, except for myself, and even if there had been, I didn’t have it in me. Not tonight.
I looked back at the mirror, this time a little more directly. My face stared back, worn and tired. I hardly recognized myself.
I ran cold water over my wrists and tried not to think about getting sick in an alley, onto what was apparently actual art. In front of a man who asked if he looked like a cop, and somehow managed to make it sound like a threat and a pickup line at the same time.
My cheeks burned. I couldn’t tell if it was from embarrassment or the heat closing in from all sides.
Nancy Reagan gave a soft boof from her spot near the door. She didn’t bother lifting her head. Her entire body had melted into the tile, and I didn’t blame her. I was half a second away from joining her myself. Every part of me felt wrong—my hair, my skin, the way my dress stuck to my body like cling-wrap. The bathroom air was stifling and stale, and my legs still felt shaky from standing too fast.
I splashed water on my face again, pressed the towel to my cheeks, and waited for my pulse to settle. It didn’t. Not really.
From the other side of the door, voices carried in. One was deep and quiet, rough around the edges. That had to be Mr. Not-a-Cop. Another was warmer, almost teasing. A third voice joined in—female, polished, and Southern in that way that made everything sound both friendly and like a warning.
I cracked the door open.
The hallway was dim, the light from the studio barely reaching this far back. The floor was solid concrete, uneven in places, and covered with a faded rug that looked like it had been walked over a thousand times without anyone bothering to straighten it. To my right, a curtain hung slightly out of place. Behind it, I could make out a bed pushed against the wall and an armchair with a sketchpad tossed onto the seat. No door. Only fabric and shadows. It wasn’t much, but it was lived-in, pulled together with care, even if nothing matched.
Nancy trotted ahead of me like she’d been there a hundred times before, her nails ticking quietly across the floor. I followed behind, slower, each step making the tight feeling in my chest worse. My brother’s voice was already forming in my head, barbed and disbelieving.You did what?
