“Really?” Jean asks me, suddenly irritated. “So the art show’s not a problem then?” At the mention, my mind’s eye fills with the dozen canvases lining the walls of my too small bedroom. The girls, Carmen in tow, wiggle their fingers at us as they file out of the cafe, caffeinated drinks they don’t need in hand.
“Why would it be?” I haven’t felt this inspired since the end of last summer, but they don’t know that, don’t knoweverythingthat happened. The only person who knows the whole truth is Clementine. And I think that’s okay. Not every truth needs to be substantial. It can just be. Jean blinks over at me, his mouth doing this weird, confusing movement that has me shaking my head. “What?”
“Have you looked at the judges list?” he presses.
Dread sinks to the bottom of my stomach. “No,” I say, sniffing as I rip off a piece of croissant and stuff it in my mouth. Liv’s eyes skate between the two of us, and I see the moment she makes the same assumption I’m making. That Elliot, the man I very briefly told her and Gen about last fall when I forced the two of them together over female rage films, is going to be here. In Boston. Atmyshow. “Shit,” I whisper, my mouth full of croissant as fear rears its ugly head, the thought of seeing him again making me want to bolt.
“Yeah. I don’t know if that’s nothing, Sloane,” Jean murmurs, his molars grinding, and I can’t help but gnaw on my lip because he’s right.
“Hey…” Liv soothes, her hand reaching out to hold mine. “What better way to show him what an idiot he is than to kick his ass at this show?”
“We’ll all be there,” Jean insists. “Literally, if he evenlooksat you, I’ll be like—go fuck yourself, you creep.” His eyes burn with intention, and I know he means it.
But I also know that Elliot can only get under my skin, and can only make me feel like his opinion matters, if I let him. That I am not the same girl he picked up from the clinic. And honestly, IhopeI disappoint him, because the pieces I’ve painted in the month since my drive came back to me—the one I thought he siphoned away—are better than anything we ever created together.
“Yeah. No, I’ll be fine. He has…no power over me, anymore,” I say, trying to mean it, but my hand’s only not shaking because Olivia is holding it.
“Good,” she tells me, her warm brown eyes staring deeper into my soul than I thought possible for her. Usually I’m the one mothering them. “And in the meantime, consider talking to that reporter.”
“I don’t talk to the?—”
“Anonymously. Sometimes, all you need is a little closure.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take the distraction gladly. Relief washes over me when I see that it’s Andy, sending me a pin to wherever the hell he is.
Johnny’s Comedy Club
Eyes crinkling, I click my screen off. It’s like a warm blanket, the feeling just the thought of Andy gives me, and I’m grateful I wound up stranded on Christmas. Grateful that fate pushed me into his arms on that snowy roof.
“It’s that good?” Jean moans. “Likeoh I’m worried about seeing my creepy ex-situationshipbut boom your current one texts you and it just washes away? The envy,” he fake wails, and I can’t help but let my smile crack wide across my face.
“Maybe,” I shrug with a tight laced smirk, lifting my brows as the wave of anxiety recedes. “I should get going.”
“Your prince awaits,” Jean grins, and Oliviascoffs.
“That would make Sloane a princess,” she laughs, knocking back the rest of her cappuccino. “You’re more like a….mage. A witch. No—an elfin witch.”
“What the hell?” Jean’s brow creases.
“Mm,” I nod, eyes narrowing as I push back in my chair. “No, I like that.”
“Wait,” Jean says, worried, “what am I?”
Olivia’s chest rumbles with laughter as she refuses to answer, and I wave a silent goodbye, following my phone to the only place I’ve ever felt like I needed to be.
34
Andy
We file off the bus, our collective energy buzzing from our win against UConn as we step onto the slippery sludge, the late winter air having warmed just enough to melt away the snowy blanket we’ve all been hiding under. The dark mornings, the freezing evenings—they’re usually enough to plunge me into a darkness of my own. But it was different this year. I know it was different because the addictive unease of longing that I’ve been convincing myself can’t be love has been there every morning when I open my eyes, taunting me with its impermanence. Every morning, I have to shove it away.
Sloane offered to drive up, just for the game, but I knew to tell her not to. Between the new sets for the conservatory’s spring show and the piece she’s been working on for her art competition, she would’ve been giving something up. And I don’t want her giving up anything for me. For anyone.
A smack on my shoulder jolts me back to the icy road I’m on the edge of, and I blink up to see Grant smirking at me. “Who knew you’d make another winning shot?”
“Me. I knew!” Ben says, knocking his head toward us as hewalks towards the athletics center that looms large in the darkness.
Grant shakes his head, chuckling. “Seriously, man. Nice to see what you can do without Chapman.” Another smack before he saunters off toward his car, where I spy Gen leaning against the door, a grin on her face, having just arrived after following us back from Connecticut. Liv passes by and smiles at me, just as I notice a figure in the shadows, clad in a black suit propped against a town car.
