Page 28 of The Breakup Artists

I grin.

“Well, you don’t have to look so happy about it.”

“As happy as you did when you guessed my sign?” I counter.

“That’s mything. Signs are my thing,” she says, and I feel some small amount of relief that she’s finally telling me something about herself, a stage I usually get to within two minutes of an initial conversation, not two days.

“As in...”

“As in I write an astrology blog.” Pride lifts her voice. “I wasn’t guessing your sign. I was deducing it from your behavior.” Then she adds with a little snark, “Not the same thing as the pensive-loner routine you have going.”

I would laugh, but it’s not funny—she makes me work for every inch.

“More like observing with an objective,” I reply.

She glances at me, and when I don’t offer any more information, she sighs and says, “Okay. I’ll bite. What’s the objective?Whydo you observe?”

“I paint,” I say, even though if I were telling the truth that verb would be past tense.

She looks down at my paint-splattered shirt, then back up at me. “Like paint, paint, or like you dabble so you can wear that shirt and feel cool?”

I laugh. “Been doing it since I could hold a brush. My mom’s a painter.” And once again I’m surprised by how I offer real information about my life. Maybe it was her dig at my shirt, a comment I, August, would have made if the situation were reversed. But whatever it is, the truth seems to land because she doesn’t send another biting comment my way.

“Lucky. I’ve always wished I could paint. I’ve tried, believe me. But I’m terrible. Like, cringeworthy. Still, I used to fantasize about living in Paris and setting up an easel in the park like some old-fashioned movie.” She laughs. “Silly, huh?”

I smile. “Not silly at all. It actually sounds kinda great.” I pause. “You should try again. Everyone struggles in the beginning.” And seeing an opportunity, I add, “I guarantee I could show you a few things that’d make you think you’re not so bad.”

She eyes me. “Is that an offer?”

“It is,” I say, willing to risk being shot down, in favor of possibly creating an opening where we could be friends.

But in the worst possible timing Amber appears in front of us, blinding us with her reflective dress in the afternoon sun. “Ella and Holden... just the people I was looking for.” She grabs us both by the hand.

We get to our feet and Amber pulls us toward the back of the boat, where everyone is dancing. Ella immediately veers toward Justin, who’s already in the mix, leaving me with Amber. I could tell her I don’t dance, but I doubt Amber would let it go. The (regrettable) path of least resistance is to comply and then slip away as soon as possible.

16

valentine

Out of breath from dancing, I grab a water bottle from the refreshments table. I so badly want to laugh at August, who I know is hating being on the dance floor and is no match for Sharky’s peppy twirls and seductive shimmies. It’s earning him some strong side-eye from Derek, which I’m guessing is Amber’s point?

Leah joins me, also grabbing water and dabbing her forehead with a cocktail napkin. She, too, notices Amber and August/Holden dancing, only she doesn’t hold back her laughter.

“It’s like she’s trying to hypnotize him before she eats him,” I say lightheartedly.

“Knowing Amber, that’s probably accurate,” Leah concurs and shakes her head. “Poor dude.” Then she glances at Derek and the Amber look-alike, leading me to believe my earlier conclusion was correct.

She chugs her water and abandons it on the table, turning toward the dance floor.

I open my mouth to continue the conversation before she walks off. But I change course when I spot Justin and Ella making a move for the staircase leading to the lower deck—which Amber said was off limits.

I wait a beat and follow. I kick off my flip-flops at the top of the stairs to keep them from doing their telltale slapping noise. As I head down, I hear Justin’s and Ella’s muffled voices ahead of me, but I can’t make out what they’re saying. The staircase opens up into a round TV room with a huge flat screen on the wall and a bar. I walk quietly across the carpet to the far end of the room and peek around the mostly closed door into the hall beyond it.

There, about three doors down, Justin leans against a doorway to what I can only assume is a bedroom. His hands are intertwined with Ella’s and he’s smiling.

“No one’s gonna miss us,” he says.

“Amber will definitely miss us,” she says with a laugh. “She practically threatened us not to mess with the bedrooms or her parents will revoke yacht privileges.”