Page 1 of The Art of Ruin

Prologue: Casey

I fly in a few days early because I miss my boyfriend. Not the idea of him but the version of us that only exists when we’re in the same room.

Distance has sanded down something between us lately. Heat into routine. Touch into habit.

Later, when I replay what happened, I don’t try to hide from that knowledge.

We haven’t seen much of each other lately, what with both of us working so much, and I just wanted to reconnect and get us back to where we were.

I told him I was in New York for the week visiting my friend Isabella, and that’s partly true. I was, but I’d left early to come home, knowing he’d never check my flight details. Thanksgiving with Isabella and her new family, the Mancinis, was great, but seeing them together made me realize how desperately my own relationship needed some work. That spark we’d had, that I saw so clearly between Isabella and Nico, was barely a flicker in my own relationship.

Networking dinners that go on too long mean we often miss each other when he’s working and I’m away, and I miss him.He’d kissed me goodbye at LAX, his hands warm on my waist, and told me to text him when I landed. His kiss was firm and deep, making my body flood with heavy tingles of desire. It had been the first time in months that I felt that heart-racing excitement.

I smiled and promised I would, and that I’d see him in a week.

But three days later I’m sitting on the plane with my sunglasses pushed into my hair, and my fingers wrapped around a paper cup of bad coffee. I imagine the moment his door opens. The pause. The blink. The way his smile always comes half a second late, like he can’t quite believe I’m real.

I replay that feeling as the plane descends. It steadies me.

I’ve been gone too much lately. We’ve both felt it. Distance stretching things thin. I want to close it. I want to remind us what we are when we’re in the same room.

I rent a car, needing the freedom of my own transport, and drive with the windows down, the California sun brushing my bare arms. I flick my hair off my face at red lights, annoyed at how the curls refuse to behave in this heat. I’m wearing linen pants, a soft white tank, flat leather sandals—comfortable, intentional. The kind of outfit that says I belong in this city, even if I don’t. I’m not sure where I belong sometimes.

Moving around as a nanny has allowed me the freedom to see the world in a way most jobs don’t, especially when I have bosses like mine who treat me more like family than staff, but it’s also stopped me from putting down real roots. I’m at the behest of what they want or plan. I’m along for their ride, not my own. That was fun for a long time, but more and more lately, I feel the need to lay foundations of my own.

I stop at the Farmer’s Market because it’s Saturday and that’s what we do here. We wander. We taste. We argue over whether heirloom tomatoes are worth the price. He pretends not to care,then carries the bag like it’s some kind of treasure. I want to get some of the strawberries he likes to go with the champagne I’d splurged on.

The market is loud and alive. Music drifting from somewhere. Citrus stacked too perfectly, the scent of fruit mixing with the smell of artisan bread. Dogs weaving between legs, making a person almost trip over. I breathe it in, feeling that lightness I associate with weekends and ease and being someone’s person.

I’m reaching for strawberries when laughter reaches me and my body reacts before my mind does.

It’s a jolt. A sharp internal pull, like something has snagged inside my chest.

I look up, a smile already starting to form on my lips. I should have known he’d be here; Jasper loves the Farmer’s Market.

He’s standing three stalls away, a wide grin on his handsome face, and I take a step towards him and freeze. This picture is wrong.

At first, my brain tries to soften it. That looks like him. Then the details snap into place. The familiar slope of his shoulders. The way he shifts his weight onto one hip when he laughs.

But what he’s holding against his chest isn’t right.

The baby fits against him like it belongs there. His arm curves around her small back without thought, fingers spread protectively, instinctive and sure. She’s pressed to his chest, cheek against his shirt, her tiny fist tangled in the fabric.

I can’t breathe as he presses a kiss to her downy head.

My stomach drops so hard it feels like free fall. Heat rushes to my face. My hands go cold, pins and needles biting at my fingertips. I grab the edge of the stall to keep myself upright, the rough wood grounding me as the world tilts.

The strawberries slip from my fingers. One bursts open on the ground. No one notices.

My gaze slides to the woman beside him. Close enough that her arm brushes his. Close enough that she reaches up and adjusts the baby’s hat with a tenderness that makes my throat close, before she leans in to kiss the baby’s cheek before smiling and kissing his cheek too. My breath hitches with a sob that tries to tear free at the sight that’s like a stab to the gut.

He shifts her higher against his chest. She settles immediately.

My breath leaves me in a rush I can’t control.

I feel my heart splinter and wonder how I can live with so much pain.

He turns then, and our eyes meet.