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Armed with a coffee and a sandwich, I sit down, grabbing a sheet of watercolor paper. I try to sink my pain and let it flow through the brush, but there’s too much. I paint anyway.
After a while, I grow sick of practicing shapes and techniques. I grab the notebook, open it to the first page, and paint a green glass bottle, turned on its side.
I’m so engrossed in the light playing over the bottle that I don’t hear them knock. Or maybe they didn’t knock at all. Knowing my family, that’s most likely.
I pause, paintbrush suspended midair. I’m not in the mood for another lecture about hurting Nic’s feelings, but the voices coming closer sound cheery. It’s forced—I can hear the strain under their words, practically feel the desperation to stick to a happy topic. But why are they here?
Timothy pops in first. “You painting?”
Mina pulls him out of the doorway, giving him a push down the hall. “Go make the drinks. Sorry,” she says to me. “This was supposed to be only us girls, but his FOMO wore out your mom and she caved.”
“What’s going on?” I ask, turning back to my painting. I can hear Mina take a few steps into the room, but she stops before she reaches me.
“We’re here for you,” she says simply, then pauses. “Finish your painting, then join us.”
Mina leaves the room, and I put my brush down. My hand is shaking. I can hear my mom’s voice, and Hazel’s. Amanda too. Timothy clattering around in my kitchen. They’re here for me.
My apartment’s not big enough for everyone, and as I listen in, I can’t hear Evie or Liam, or my dad, so I’m guessing they’ve been left at home.
Where’s Nic?
Could he be here too? I run a hand through my hair, paint crunching in my tangled curls. Mina would’ve given me a heads-up, right? I’m not ready to see him again, not like this, but I want to. So bad.
I’m halfway to my feet when my door opens again and my mom walks in, carefully carrying a very full strawberry daiquiri. Her attention is riveted to the glass until she sets it on my desk. She wraps me in a hug. “I am so sorry,” she says, sniffling into my hair.
It crushes me. He’s not here, he doesn’t want to talk, and he’s not about to walk in and tell me he was wrong. But Mom’s hug is warm and comforting, the familiar scent of her perfume eternal, and for once she sees my pain. She’s here and I’m not alone.
I’m crying again because I needed this hug almost as much as I needed her to see me.
“I didn’t realize,” she says. “He’s wrong and he loves you, but I should’ve realized you were hurting. You’re not flighty, and I shouldn’t have implied you couldn’t work through the hard stuff. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
I untangle myself from the hug and carefully lift the glass to my lips, taking a big drink, hangover be damned. I set it back down almost immediately because goddamn Timothy mixes a strong drink.
“You love him, don’t you?” she asks softly.
I sigh and shrug.
My mom twists her fingers, looking upset. “He’s gone back to LA.”
Oh.
So it really is over. The last few shreds of hope I’ve been clinging to fall to pieces.
My mom stares at the wall for a long minute. “We kind of told him to sort his shit.”
My fingers are trembling as they cover my mouth. Dammit. This isn’t what I wanted. I never wanted him to lose my family. I only wanted them to see me too. To make me as big a priority as him. “He’s all alone?”
“He needs to be,” Timothy says from the doorway, his voice soft. “He needs to decide what he wants out of life and to figure that out, he needs to be alone.”
I hope Timothy’s right, but there’s an easier option right in front of Nic. Go back to his normal—fucking beautiful women and badly delivering lines in movies.
“And you,” Timothy says, “need to put yourself out there and try harder.”
“Excuse me?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“You give up too easily. Fight for something for once.”
I turn an exasperated look toward my mother, but she shrugs. “He has a point, sweetie. Look at your art, for example.”
