Page 20 of My Faire Lady

“Higher,” I say with a smug grin.

“Three hundred?”

I nod, and as she beams, my heart swells. While disappointing her tears me apart, making her proud knits me back together.

She disappears into the kitchen and returns with a cupcake in each hand.

“I thought we should celebrate,” she says, setting them on the coffee table. She pulls a lighter from her back pocket and lights the candles on each cupcake, the flames dancing in the low light. “You’re doing it, Lottie. It might be scary, but if you win this contest, it’ll change your life. I’m proud of you.”

Tears climb the back of my throat and choke out any words. She’s right. It’s terrifying, and I don’t know if it’s something I’m capable of, but putting myself in this position and making the leap was the hardest part.

Kelsey leans over her cupcake, gesturing for me to do the same, and at the same time, we blow out the candles.

And while this isn’t my birthday, and the tradition of birthday candles doesn’t apply under such circumstances, I close my eyes and make a wish. That, by some miracle, this all works out. That I can keep being brave. That, if I’m lucky, I can believe in myself as much as my sister does.

We finish off the red velvet cupcakes for dinner, and she falls asleep on the arm of the couch as I clear the coffee table. Tidying up doesn’t take long, but thoughts run through my mind long after the stars light the sky.

Padding to my room, I spend more time than necessary folding the laundry. After today, the last thing I want to do tomorrow is wake up and go to work at the craft store. I wish I could escape the reality of life and burrow myself into the magic of the ren faire.

In my pajamas, I pull back the sheets of my bed and slide in, adjusting the pillows behind my neck. But the night is too still, my thoughts too loud. Blowing out a huff, I roll to my side and close my eyes, but my mind replays the way Scarlet looked at me when I arrived at the gate this morning.

She was reserved, as if trying to keep her distance, but I caught the way her eyes scanned me, lingering on the bow of my lips. I caught the way she smiled as we made our bet.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand and tap the screen for the hundredth time tonight. No text from Scarlet. No apology.

Pulling it from the charger, I lay on my back and scroll until her contact information comes up. I suck in a cheek and bring up a new text thread, staring at the cursor blinking in the text box.

But what’s there to say? She has no obligation or responsibility for me. I’m just a temporary employee.

I groan and toss it to the pillow, throwing my forearm over my eyes. This is ridiculous. I need to set my focus on the contest and building a portfolio with what little time I have before the deadline. I don’t have time to think about Scarlet, the way her armor molds to her body, or the brief moment I considered replacing the beer can with my lips.

Blowing out a huff, I prop myself on my elbow and throw off the sheets, welcoming the sting of cool air that wafts over my skin.

I swing my legs off the mattress and lean forward, pulling the chain on the lamp. It casts a warm glow over the room I’ve slept in since my childhood, and I pad to the small rolltop desk in the corner. Lowering onto the cushioned seat, I push back the cover and pluck a sketching pencil from the cup.

A pile of used sketchbooks sit pushed against the back. I ease one out, flipping it open to the first clean page. I smooth the side of my hand over the sheet twice—a habit I developed when sketching was the only distraction from the grief of losing grandma.

This isn’t grief—the way Scarlet is slipping into my mind. But whatever this is, I need it gone.

I press the graphite to the blank page, and the strokes of the pencil come as easy as breathing. Minutes pass, measured only by the steady ticking of the clock. I create drawings of billowing sleeves that extend past fingertips, capes with buckles at the base of the throat, and long skirts—some with hoops, some without.

My vision blurs, and I rub the sleep from my eyes, squinting at the small clock on my nightstand. Past two in the morning. I study my sketches, flipping through the pages. If I render them more, they’ll be good for the portfolio, but none of them are worthy of that standalone piece I have to submit as the frontrunner.

I lean back and chew on my bottom lip. Maybe I’ll sleep on it, or an idea will come to me while I’m in the shower or driving to work in the morning. Biting back a yawn, I pull down the cover on the rolltop and stand, pushing in the chair.

The floorboards groan under my feet. I lower onto the mattress, my body heavy and aching from being on my feet all day. But it’s different from the pains I have after of working an eight-hour shift behind the craft store register. There’s a depth to these aches, one that I’d happily take again tomorrow if it meant I could be doing what I love.

My phone vibrates.

I dig through the sheets, my heart a drum in my chest. There are only two people who would text me at this hour, and one of them is passed out on the couch in the living room.

My hand wraps around my phone, and I tilt it toward my face, wincing as my eyes adjust to the bright light. A text notification pops up, and my stomach flips over on itself.

Scarlet: Sorry I couldn’t walk you to your car. There was an emergency, but I’ll make it up to you next weekend.

I stare at the message, reading and rereading it as I bottle the breath in my lungs. My fingers hover over the keyboard, poised to respond, but a deep chill spreads across my chest. My smile fades. I spent the last four hours doing everything I could to get her out of my mind, and all it took was a text in the middle of the night for her to flood my thoughts again.

Flicking my finger across the screen, I close out of my messages and bring up the permanently open contest website. Settling against my headboard, I scroll through the photos of the campus and, inevitably, photos of Edinburgh. It calls to me—the lure of a fresh start.