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I freeze.
That sick hurt churns in my gut again, even though I told myself to ignore it and treat it just like a one-night stand between strangers.
He stops, absently glancing up and going stiff. His eyes widen briefly.
Right before his face shutters again and he looks down swiftly, focusing on the stack of pages held between him and Deb.
It hurts.
I knew it would happen, but the reality is still heart shredding, digging its claws just under my ribs.
Deb looks between us in confusion, with her brows tight. The resemblance between brother and sister is suddenly very sharp—I can see the thundercloud brewing and almost hear her demanding to know what August did, and why he’s ignoring me in front of the staff, while I’m standing here blank and miserable and paralyzed.
I don’t give her a chance.
I force the same smile I always do.
I wave and cheerfully call, “Hey, Deb! I just wanted to let you know I’ll be down with Clara today.”
Then I turn and walk back into the elevator, frantically pushing the down button to cut off the sight of August lifting his head and watching me with the most haunted look on his face.
I nearly race to Clara’s little studio cottage, where I find her pouring tea when I burst in. She gasps softly, almost spilling it before she catches herself and tips the delicate porcelain pot upright, then switches over to pouring into the second cup.
“Elle?” she whispers. Her soft southern lilt is automatically comforting. “What’s happened, dear?”
“Bee,” I deflect, taking a shaky breath. “Guess spring’s coming after all. It chased me all the way here.”
What?
You think I’m going to tell her I fucked your nephew last night, and he threw a shirt at me and kicked me out, and now every time I look at him I want to cry because I think I might be in love with who I thought he was?
Nah, I think I’ll keep that bit to myself.
Instead, I ask her to show me how to draw Inky again, hoping that teaching me might rekindle her love. Hoping that the joy of drawing her most beloved creation will ignite something fresh in her.
It’s a strange day, honestly.
Heartbreak weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach, but also elation at getting to watch Clara trace those familiar round shapes and flippers with so much precision and—dare I say it?—fondness. She shows me all the base shapes she uses, watches me sketch them myself, offers gentle corrections, and then draws for me again.
Pure bliss.
It’s amazing, learning from a total legend, fulfilling in ways I never thought it would be.
It’s just not enough to stop me from feeling sad.
Every day becomes like this. I make myself come in to work to keep up the facade.
Grandma watches me go to the door with a worried look that says she knows something is wrong but she’ll let me come to her when I’m ready. I try to avoid August at work, but he keeps coming in early like he’s a pod person or something. We keep bumping into each other in the parking lot, in the lobby, the little espresso bar downstairs.
It’s always awkward.
Frozen moments.
Haunted looks.
A few times, he parts his lips and then just stops and turns away.
I’ve come so close to texting him and demanding that he just stop holding back and say whatever he’s going to say.
