Page 66 of The Breakup Artists

I choke on my water. She didn’t subtly mention a girlfriend wondering if I’d refute it; she just outright asked. “Uh... hmmm,” I say, wiping water from my mouth with the back of my hand.

One corner of her sun-pink lips quirks up. “Well, this is entertaining.”

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

I sigh. There’s no saying no to this girl. “Truth be told... I’m not that good at connecting with people, friends or otherwise.” It doesn’t escape me that I was just thinking about this, that she somehow plucked my worry from my psyche the same way I often do on cases. Only she did it without trying.

She lifts an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe it.

“Attraction is easy,” I say with a sigh. “Actually connecting? Not so much.”

For a second, she’s still. “Wow, you’re admitting that?”

I scratch my shoulder, more surprised than she is. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Huh,” she says and leans back in her chair. “And what are you doing here? Connection or attraction?”

If I were drinking water, I’d choke again. It’s not that these conversations never come up when Tiny and I are doing these cases, but they’re never this direct. So I do what I normally do and steer away from the topic, saying, “You have a boyfriend,” but the words feel stilted and I think she can tell.

She leans back in her chair, one strap from her black sundress sliding down her shoulder. “That’s not in debate.”

Despite my best effort I look at the strap. And swallow. Like a complete effing chump. “You really like to put people on the spot.”

She shrugs. “Future journalist.”

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and breaking eye contact so I can think.

She laughs lightly. “How about this, tell me about painting instead.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask, looking back up. It feels strange that I’m relieved to be talking about painting of all things.

“What you almost told me in the crêpe place but didn’t,” she says, and my relief vanishes.

I pause, scraping my teeth along my bottom lip.

And to my shock she sighs and says, “Sorry.”

My eyes flit up to meet hers. “Wait, why?”

“I just...” She shakes her head, her long wavy hair sliding across her tanned arm. “I was doing that thing I do when I’m nervous. I start asking pointed questions and putting the other person on the spot. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why are you nervous?” I ask before I can decide if I should. Because I no longer know where August ends and Holden begins; the line is all but gone.

She lifts her shoulders and drops them, twisting a simple gold ring with slender fingers. It occurs to me I never realized how delicate her hands were before, that if I held them to my own, I’d dwarf them.

“I honestly don’t know,” she replies. “Maybe it’s the painting? Or the things we talk about? But there’s something about the way our conversations always seem to strike at the heart of things, and it makes me wonder if I’ve...” She looks out past her yard to the trees swaying in the warm summer breeze. “Never mind.”

Only now I want to know. “Does it make you wonder if you’ve been... numb for a while?” I ask, not because I know I’m right, because it’s how I feel.

“Yes,” she says with relief. “Numb. So numb.”

This time when silence descends neither of us looks away. We just stare at each other for a long moment like the other might be a mirror, one we desperately needed but didn’t know to look for. I think I forget to breathe.

Then I hear myself talking, telling her things I haven’t said aloud, and what really shocks me is, I want to. “I didn’t just paint. I also sketched,” I say, just to see how it feels. “And I gave that up, too, when Des died.”

She waits, not pressuring me this time.