Page 100 of The Breakup Artists

“I guess I’m a little hungry,” I admitted.

“Oh?”

“Maybe I could help you make them?”

She grinned at me so big and bright that some of the tightness in my chest released. She poured some chocolate chips into my hand. “Grab the mixing bowl, little brother. We’re making a chocolate feast!”

And even though everything was wrong, really wrong, I realized it might be okay anyway because I still had Des.

Ella doesn’t respond right away, so I sneak a peek at her. “I’m sorry. That must have been incredibly hard,” she says, a small worry line in her forehead.

I open my mouth and close it. The last thing I want to talk about on this very anticipated hangout is my dad. The only thing worse would be if we started talking about Kyle.

I brush it off with a shrug.

She looks at me like she’s trying to decide whether she should ask another question. She sighs. “Enough about parents. Parents suck,” she says, and I couldn’t agree more. “Let’s talk about something more interesting. Like... have you ever been in love?”

My laugh takes me by surprise.

She smiles. “That’s funny?”

“Unexpected.”

“Good,” she says, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s thinking about our conversation when I told her I like girls who surprise me. “If you don’t anticipate a question, your answer is more truthful.”

“You want the truth?” I start. “It’s actually kind of embarrassing.”

“All the better,” she says with a satisfied smile.

I laugh, mostly at myself because I can’t believe I’m about to admit this. “The last girlfriend I had was in seventh grade, and I gave her a friendship bracelet and held her hand twice.”

“There’s no way that’s true,” she objects. “You’re attractive and charming. I don’t believe for a second you’ve never been in a relationship. Amber wanted to jump you on day one.”

Her words make me blush. And my stomach dips pleasantly at her compliment. “I think you have a different impression of me than most people do,” I say, once again as August. “In my everyday life, I’m usually really quiet.”

She looks at me sideways, like she just doesn’t buy it. “I’m trying to believe you, but no, I just can’t. I mean, you’re pensive, sure. But it just adds to your artsy vibe.”

I can’t help but smile, and she grins back. “How about this,” I say, trying again. “I’m not good at casual. I’m not one of those people who have quasi friends or can date for two weeks and then shrug it off. It’s true that I haven’t had a committed relationship, but I think it’s just because what I want is something real.” I get the irony that I’m currently talking about how much realness means to me, when she doesn’t even know my name.

“Hmmm,” she says, considering it. “I can accept that. Actually, in some ways we’re similar. I’m not a casual dater, either. Justin’s the only boyfriend I’ve had in high school.” The mention of Justin tightens her expression. She doesn’t elaborate on her thought, though. Instead, she switches off the AC and rolls down her window. “Fresh air is so much better.”

She pulls up a playlist on her phone and sets it to play through Tiny’s speakers. And we ride like that for a while—wind blowing, music playing, and Ella singing. When we pull into a parking spot in the art store lot, I’m bummed it’s over, making a mental note to take the long way home.

Ella hops out of the Jeep onto the warm pavement, and I join her. I’m overly aware of walking next to her. It’s almost uncomfortable, the sensation of being with her, of noticing the way her mouth bows when she’s holding back her amusement or the way she twists her hair over her shoulder when she’s unsure. And when I open the art store door for her, she rewards me with a smile that makes me want to earn another.

The store smells exactly the way I remember—new canvas mixed with pungent alcohol brush cleaner. The shelves are stocked in a colorful Willy Wonka–inspired layout of paper, paints, and fabric.

I can practically feel Des pulling me by the hand through the aisles, oohing and aahing over craft supplies—something to decorate her backpack or make a patch for her jeans. Des never painted. She wasn’t drawn to art the way Mom and I are—in fact she used to joke that she wasn’t even good at doodling. But she was a self-proclaimed bedazzler—if it was possible to make it shiny, she was on it.

Nostalgia swirls around me like fog. And a sketch forms in my mind, beckoning me to follow it.

I turn to find Ella studying my face as though she’s been watching me for a while, a curiosity line between her eyebrows.

“You were sketching, weren’t you?” she asks, and I’m reminded of what she said about my drawings being a connection to my sister. While that idea is still far from comfortable, it’s also not unthinkable like it was a few days ago.

I rub the back of my neck. “A little,” I admit. “This place...”

“Is special?” she offers, and I’m surprised by how easily she read me.