Page 93 of The Breakup Artists

I press my lips together. “About that,” I start and stop, once again with the worst timing ever, but given our fight over my lack of communication, there’s also no prolonging it. “It’s not just us this year.”

There is recognition in his eyes and he groans. “Seriously?”

I lift my hands. “I know what you’re thinking. But I swear, Bentley’s not who he appears to be.”

“And what if he’s exactly who he appears to be?”

I nod. This is the objection I was expecting when I first told him. “Look, give him a chance, that’s all I ask. I don’t expect you two to be besties. But if you spend a little time with him, I think you’ll be surprised.”

August stares at me dubiously. “So what are you saying? You guys are dating?”

My heart picks up its pace. “Kinda. Yeah.” I fidget with the edge of his rumpled comforter. “But Bentley coming to the party isn’t the thing you’re going to find most problematic.”

He looks at me sideways, like he’s not sure he even wants to know.

I have trouble holding eye contact. “It didn’t occur to me when I invited him that he didn’t know what we actually do for work.”

August looks up at the ceiling and shakes his head. “Damn it, Tiny.”

“Sorry again... again.”

His shoulders drop in defeat. “Have you told him?”

I shake my head. “I was waiting to talk to you first.”

And even though he doesn’t look happy about it, it seems like what I said matters.

Before he can answer, though, his phone buzzes on his nightstand. We both turn, and when Ella’s name flashes across his screen, my heart leaps in utter joy. Maybe things aren’t as broken as they seemed a minute ago. Maybe we can rectify this still.

August looks up at me, and it feels like he’s experiencing some sliver of the same emotion I am. His face seems to physically loosen. “Okay... as much as I really don’t like it, Bentley knowing is a million times better than him mentioning our fake internship in front of your parents,” he concedes. “We should have corrected that a year ago and just told everyone the same caterer story.”

I feel this in my bones. What were we ever thinking, trying to maintain not one buttwofalse jobs. Ridiculous. August turns his attention to his phone, opening the message. I lean forward to read it.

Ella

What did you used to paint, when you painted?

August and I make eye contact.

“Ella reached out toyou,” I say. “And it’s not to curse you out. This is best-case scenario. Best best case.”

His fingers hover over his keys, and he takes a big inhale, like it’s the first time he’s been able to breathe in days.

August

Mostly portraits.

I sad-smile at his answer. Capturing people in everyday moments was always the thing he enjoyed most. He was never much for landscapes like his mom or the modern styles that employ straight lines and splattered paint you see in galleries. His art was simpler, emotional.

Ella

Do you miss it?

August

Yes and no.

Ella