Page 95 of The Breakup Artists

For a long moment she’s just quiet. “You’re apologizing?”

“Yeah. I was wrong. And to tell you the truth, I’ve been low-key agonizing over it for days.”

She makes a hmmmph sound that feels like she accepts my answer. “You said threatening our friendship wasn’t your intention, so then what exactly was?”

I exhale. “Nothing I feel like admitting,” I say as August. Again. “But I will say that I don’t think Justin deserves you.” As the words leave my mouth, my heart starts hammering. This isn’t an approach we’ve ever taken before on a case. I’ve never been this direct. And I don’t know what Tiny would say if she heard it.

For a second Ella’s silent. She doesn’t say she knows, or even that I’ve got it all wrong and he’s better than what I saw. What she says is, “That’s not for you to decide.”

“You’re right,” I say. “But what have you decided?”

Again silence. And I start to sweat. I hate how much her answer matters to me.

Finally, she says, “I don’t know.” Her tone isn’t frustrated; it’s unsure. And for the first time since we started this case, I see a crack that tells me she’s not as confident about Justin as she once appeared.

“Maybe I can help you sort it out?” I offer, belatedly realizing how awkward that sounds. I thud my palm into my forehead with a silent groan.

“God, no,” she says, and thankfully she laughs.

So I roll with it. “I hear I’m a good listener,” I say, extending the humor. And maybe I feel a little lighter knowing she isn’t confident about Justin. But whether it’s August or Holden that’s rejoicing over that fact, I’m not sure.

“I bet you are,” she says sarcastically.

I smile. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

And now I’m full-on grinning at my phone like a doof. “Are you trying to sweet-talk me, Scorpio?”

“Only a little,” she says, and my stomach free-falls into oblivion.

Oh man. What am I doing? And while I know the answer lies in the “I should knock it off” territory, I just can’t seem to help myself. I, August Mariani, desperately want to make this girl smile. I want to make her laugh and bring a blush to that star constellation on her cheekbone. I barely recognize myself.

When I don’t reply right away, she says, “Anyway, new topic.”

And I oblige. “Mia tells me your driving privileges have been revoked? Does that still stand?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to see you,” I say, leaning against my window and looking out into my backyard, the hope in my chest almost too much to bear.

“Tomorrow,” she replies, and the way that word lights me up is a little astounding.

“Tomorrow works,” I say.

She laughs. “Works for what?”

“Well, there’s this art store I really like in Fairfield. I thought maybe you’d want to go with me?”

She hesitates. “Art store, huh? Are you buying paints?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“ThenmaybeI’ll come,” she says, and I can hear her smiling. “Anyway, I gotta run. Very busy nondriving life over here.”

“Hey, at least being home is good for writing,” I offer.

“It really is.”