Page 56 of The Breakup Artists

“You’re not into blond femme fatales? Are you sure you have a pulse?”

“Stupid, right?”

“Very,” she agrees. “But now I’m curious. If you don’t like Amber, what kind of girl do you like?”

“Uh,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I guess I like people who surprise me.”

“You’re gonna have to elaborate on that one.”

“Well,” I say, pausing for a beat, trying to actually answer. No one’s asked me this question since I was a preteen, when Tiny said she liked blonds, and that even though she’d give anyone a chance because personality was far more important, she just couldn’t help but love all that shiny hair; all I said in response was that I liked smart girls. “I’ve known lots of Ambers. I can pretty much tell you what she’s going to do and when. But I prefer not knowing. I like when someone throws me for a loop.”

Ella doesn’t immediately respond with a question or banter. Instead, she raises her eyebrows. “You better not be referring to when I said you weren’t what I expected. I wasnotflirting with you,” she says, giving me a stern look and pointing her fork at me.

My eyes widen and I scramble to fix it. “Not what I was getting at. I didn’t say you liked surprising guys; I said I like surprising girls.”

Now she looks embarrassed, and I feel like this whole meeting is somehow cursed to be awkward, and that it might be Tiny’s fault because of her taunting.

“Well, right, good,” she replies, spearing her crêpe. “Because I don’t. I like guys predictable and boring.”

I laugh. “Fair enough.”

“Now, what were we talking about before this?” she continues. “Oh, right, you asked about my mom,” Ella says, changing not only the subject but also the tone.

I nod, readjusting. “You don’t have to—”

“Obviously,” she says. “But I want to.” She takes a small bite and swallows. “It’s just, well, my mom and I don’t talk that much anymore. I mean, we talk, but not about real things. Every time we get on a heavy topic, we argue. So we both just started avoiding them.” She shakes her head. “It’s funny because I give people advice all day long on my astrology blog about deeply personal issues, and yet I...” She pauses like she’s searching for the right words.

“Don’t think about your own problems?” I offer.

“Never,” she agrees. “Although I’m not sure you can relate. You always bring the conversation to something personal and real.”

“Me?” I say, a little surprised. “Not even close.”

She gives me a demanding stare.

“No, seriously.” Once again I’ve slipped into August’s truth. “I’m way better at talking about other people’s problems than my own.”

She leans her elbows on the table. “Okay, Holden, shoot. Tell me something you avoid dealing with.”

I don’t answer right away, but Ella doesn’t waver. And I realize why I’ve never let my personality seep into cases before, because throwing out fake problems is easy and non–anxiety inducing.

“How about this: I’ll go first.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin.

Shit. We’re actually doing this.

“So remember how I told you I think of my grandmother as my best friend? Well, I haven’t been able to get that out of my head. I keep wondering what it means about my relationship with Amber and Leah that I’d choose Nonna over them even though she’s gone.” She fidgets with her fork. “The three of us have been friends since elementary school. But we had a falling-out shortly before my grandmother passed. And truthfully, I don’t think we’ve ever gotten back to where we were. Something is just different, and I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

I’m once again taken aback. Why didn’t her parents tell us about her grandmother or this social situation? Losing first your friend group and then your closest relative is devastating and something I imagine changed her entire psychology, how she sees the world and herself in it. “Honestly, I don’t know how you did it. I’m not sure I’d recover from a falling-out with Mia alongside losing Des.” I mean this. I’d have been utterly lost.

She presses her lips together and nods, dipping her head with the motion and once again revealing the star constellation of freckles on her cheekbone. “Your turn,” she says instead of elaborating about how hard it was. And once again I realize how similar we are.

She waits.

But I don’t immediately speak. Because I feel I owe her a real answer. Ella will never know this since I’ll only be in her life for another couple of weeks, but she’s doing for me what I usually do for others, providing a space to dig through all the layers and access what’s underneath. I take a breath. “You know how I offered to teach you to paint?” My voice is quiet.

“I do.”

I study my hands, my heart beating too fast. “I haven’t painted since my sister passed.”