Page 94 of The Breakup Artists

But more yes?

August

... maybe

Ella

Do you ever think you’ll give it another try?

August

I used to think never.

Ella

Are you saying something changed your mind?

He momentarily hesitates.

August

Not sure I should answer that one truthfully.

For a second, I’m stunned. Because he’s telling the truth; I know by the uncertainty in his eyes. He’s actually considered painting again. And he’s considered it because of Ella. She’s helping him take a step toward resolving one of his biggest hang-ups. But how? She didn’t sit with him through his dark periods or buy him tickets to art museums that he refused to accept. She wasn’t there when he’d perch on the dock for hours staring at the water. She didn’t think up elaborate schemes to slowly pull him out from behind The Wall, create an entire business to help bring him closure. She just... exists, and while that appears to be enough, it’s also enormously unfair.

But instead of texting back, she calls him.

And when he sees her name flash across his screen, he gets out of bed so fast that you’d think he’d overslept for finals. “Uh, hey,” he says. “Hang on, Ella.” He turns to me, pressing the phone against his chest. “Mia, can you give me a sec?”

My shock doubles. He’s asking me to leave the room? For acasephone call? But given the fact that I’ve only just exited the doghouse, I’m not going to make a thing out of it.

46

august

“So,” Ella says, her voice overly pleased. “Are you saying thatIsomehow changed your mind about painting?”

For a flash of a second my heartbeat stutters. I pace the faded edges of the oriental area rug in my bedroom. Holden or August? August or Holden? If I answer as Holden, I’d use distancing language and send us squarely back into friend territory in a way that would imply I never heard the hope in her tone. I want to answer as Holden, I should answer as Holden, but for reasons untold I just can’t. “I think you know the answer.”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me, Gemini,” she says with a laugh.

“Is it considered sweet-talking if it’s true, Scorpio?” I ask back, which is the most honest answer I can think of.

“To use your favorite word... maybe.”

I can tell she’s enjoying herself, and inspiring her enjoyment is now a new kind of pleasure, a better one.

“But before you think of a witty response,” she continues, “I just wanted to... check in with you about the other night.”

I freeze, suddenly nervous. “Check in with me how?”

“About that stupid male standoff you instigated.”

I let out my breath. While her phrasing is accusatory, it’s not “I’m never talking to you again” pissed, and the relief I feel is so intense that I actually sit down on my bed. “I’m assuming by ‘stupid’ you actually meant to say ‘well meaning’?” I ask, employing as much lightness as I can and hoping for the best.

“Stupid, as in I don’t need you to stand up for me. Stupid, as in you royally pissed off my boyfriend. And stupid, as in you threatened our friendship.”

She’s annoyed, but she’s bringing it to me to discuss, not writing me off. Is it strange that I want to hug her for it? “First,” I say, keeping my explanation as true as I can—I feel I owe her that. I’ve oddly always felt I owed her that. “No one needs someone else to stand up for them. People do it because they care, even when they get it wrong the way I did. Second, Justin deserved to be pissed off; I don’t feel bad about that for a second. And third, you’re right. That definitely wasn’t my intention. I apologize.”