Page 39 of The Breakup Artists

“It’s weird how you look like a normal person, but then you start talking and it turns out you’re a pest of the worst kind.”

I give her a knowing smile. “You think in your mind that you know exactly what raindrops are, that you’ve seen them your whole life—they’re predictable. But then you find out about the jelly bean bit and it feels wrong, annoying even. Teardrops are sexy. Jelly beans are goofy. So you ignore the idea, and you go back to thinking of them as teardrops.”

“So the moral of your story is to deny raindrops their shape?”

“When things or people, especially people, don’t look or act the way we envision them in our head, we ignore their truth, reimagining them as something better suited to our image.” I pause. “You said in your introduction on your blog that you write both the good and the bad, and that may not be for everyone. That a lot of people want the good and the sugarcoated bad. But that’s not people, and you write people. Just thought you’d appreciate that the raindrops agree with you.”

For a moment she just stares at me, her brown eyes taking me in. “Hmmm.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“No, but it’s exactly the type of thing you could use in your write-ups.”

She lifts a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “So not only did you read my blog, but you spent time thinking about what might be useful to me? Why?”

“Because I’m passionate about astrology.”

“Right.” She laughs and tilts her head. Her hair slides across her back, and I get a whiff of her shampoo—coconut and vanilla.

“Well then, I guess my job here is done,” I say in a satisfied tone.

“So that’s it?” she says, amused. “You just came here to tell me about raindrops?”

“I came here to grab a coffee.” I slide off my stool, lifting my cup as evidence. “See you around.” I turn.

Three... two... one...

“Hey, Holden?” she says, and I stop. “A group of us are going to the carnival tomorrow night. You and Mia should join.”

“Maybe we will, Scorpio. Maybe we will.” And I leave.

22

valentine

“August Anthony Mariani,” I say, climbing through his window. “Put on something other than your man briefs because we have some carnival plotting to do.”

August squints at me in the late-morning light. I can tell he’s been awake for a bit because he’s not grunting and cursing into his pillow, but not long enough for the surly to wear off completely.

“And you know what kind of underwear I wear, how exactly?” he asks, his voice rough. Swee snores peacefully by his side, his scraggly old cat body tucked carefully under August’s sheet like a person.

“Because I go through your drawers. Obviously.”

He cracks a smile. “Fair enough.”

I laugh. “You wouldn’t care?”

“If you went through my stuff?” He shrugs. “Nope. I trust you.”

I’m instantly reminded of my conversation with Bentley yesterday and feel justified all over again about defending August. Now, if I could just stop thinking about that conversation altogether, that’d be awesome.

I pull my sparkly purple notebook from my shoulder bag and plop down in August’s desk chair. “Ready?”

He props himself up on his elbow. “I’m not saying I don’t want to plot, but I’m definitely going to need some coff—”

“I’ll get it. You feed Swee. And then we’ll—”