“First time.” She sets down her brush. That deliberate movement. The one that means she’s made a decision. “And probably last time. This was more of a birthday thing.”
“Oh, it’s your birthday?”
“The 18th.”
“Happy birthday.” He’s still standing too close. Still radiating that model confidence. “You know, there’s a great coffee place around the corner. If you wanted to grab something after class. Talk about art. Or not art. Whatever.”
She looks at him. Really looks at him. Takes in the dark hair, the sharp jawline, the confidence that probably works on most people.
“That’s really sweet,” she says. And means it. “But I’m actually turning over a new leaf. Starting with not dating anyone named David.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Long story.” She glances at me. I’m trying very hard not to laugh. “Short version: I have terrible taste in Davids. All of them. Every single one.”
“That’s... oddly specific.”
“You have no idea.” She picks up her wine glass. “But thank you. Really. You’re very attractive and probably very nice. I’m just... working on my life choices.”
He stands there for a second. Processing. Then laughs. “Fair enough. Can’t argue with self-improvement.”
“Exactly.” She raises her glass. “To better decisions.”
“To better decisions.” He nods, accepting the rejection with surprising grace. “Enjoy the rest of class.”
He walks away. Back to the platform. Back to his professional model zone.
Alex turns to me. Her whole face lights up with victory.
“I’m proud of you,” I say.
And I am. Because I’ve watched her date broken artists for years, thinking she could fix them. Thinking she needed to save someone to be worth loving. And she just turned down a hot, charming guy because his name matched her pattern.
She’s choosing herself. Not the fixer. Not the healer. Not the woman who makes herself smaller so someone else can grow.
Learning the same lesson I’m learning—that survival means recognizing your patterns and changing them. That we don’t have to keep being the people our traumas made us.
“I’m proud of me too.” She takes a drink. “New leaf, Dylan. I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Me too.” The words come out quieter than I mean them to.
She looks at me. Really looks. “Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen. About your intuition. About Dahlia.” My throat tightens. The armor trying to come back up. I push through it. “About everything.”
“I know.” She squeezes my hand. Quick. Hard. “And I’m sorry I left you alone with it. I shouldn’t have shut you out like that.”
“We’re a mess.”
“The biggest mess.” She grins through the shine in her eyes. “But we’re our mess.”
“Alright everyone!” Margot calls, cutting through the moment. “Let’s resume. Final pose for today.”
David drops the robe again. Takes his position.
“Dandelions?” I whisper.
“Dandelions,” she whispers back.
