Page 18 of Brazen Criminals

“Just us. The other guys have a catered dinner tonight. There’ll be leftovers, but not until late.”

“Catered? Fancy. Well, I know most people aren’t a fan, but I’m a Canadian bacon and pineapple gal myself.”

I poke her shoulder. “Ew. Fruit on pizza is an abomination.”

She sticks out her tongue at me, and I laugh. She actually smiles this time and something inside me relaxes. “I’ll take anything as long as it isn’t fruit. Because that’s gross.”

We end up with a supreme—no green peppers—and place the order only a minute or two before we get to the store.

Throwing the car in park, I twist to look at her. “We’ve got a few minutes. Let’s play a game.”

Clara huffs and turns toward me. “What kind of game?”

I think for a second. “Highs and lows. Three highs for the day and three lows. Any order.”

Her smile drops again, her brown eyes suddenly glassy. “Only if you go first.”

I nod, realizing this game might be a bad idea. Damn it. I guess I’ll just forge ahead and hope for the best. “Got it. Me first. I’ll start with a high. I think I’ve almost gotten the right tension in my wrist to mimic Rubens’ sketches, which I’m super excited about.”

She glances up at me, eyes open and maybe even curious. “Who’s Ruben, and why do you want to draw like him?”

I look around for my sketchbook, but it’s still at the house. “I’d show you, but I don’t have it here. Peter Paul Rubens was a baroque artist. He did these super vibrant and detailed sketches of people and animals that not only look real, but it’s like they’re just waiting to jump out of the page. I’ve been working on my wrist all summer, trying to mimic that dynamism, and I think I’m almost there. I’m probably way too excited about it, but here, let me look it up.” I reach for my phone, but Clara holds onto it, not giving it back.

“I saw you drawing this morning. And Jansen said that you’re an art major. I’d love to see your drawings. Maybe you can show me when we get back?” Clara has a small smile again, but it’s still not bright, not vibrant. She continues, “Either way, that’s a pretty big high if you’ve been working on it all summer.”

“It is. I almost had it when Jansen called.”

“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” she says.

I huff out a halfhearted chuckle. “Not your fault. It’s totally Jansen’s, and I plan to let him know tomorrow. That would be one of my lows for today, though, Jansen interrupting me. I’ve done one high and one low. Your turn.”

“Can mine be both a high and a low?”

“Sure.”

She sighs, tucking that same bit of hair behind her ear again. “I broke up with my boyfriend, Bryce.” A few tears fall down her cheek and I immediately tense.

Unsettled, I go with my gut and grab her hand, giving it a little squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

She squeezes back. “Thanks.”

A few more tears streak down her cheeks before she clears her throat, pulling her hand from mine to wipe the trails from her face.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “It looks like this is more of a low than a mixed bag.”

“No, not really. I mean, I’m actually more angry than anything that it ended. Two years, poof, gone. But I think maybe we weren’t the perfect couple I thought we were, you know? I don’t know if I liked the person I was becoming with him.”

“What kind of person were you becoming?”

She tugs her shirt down and taps her thigh. Five quick taps, a pause, five more taps. “I was cautious. I was so afraid of doing anything wrong, anything risky, of having any emotion besides ‘pleasant company,’ which I know isn’t an emotion, but it’s what I was—nothing but pleasant company. I wasn’t me anymore because he didn’t like it when I was me.”

“Well, that sucks.”

She gives a pained chuckle. “It does.”

I try to imagine not having emotions—trying to keep myself steady on the rolling waves of joy, fear, ambition, and desire inside of me. It sounds painful, exhausting, and not at all like me. I can’t imagine choosing to live that way, especially for someone else. It would drown me. I gaze at Clara and see the exhaustion, but also a desire to hop on a boat and see where her emotions take her. “In that case, who do you want to be?” I ask.

Five more taps before she focuses on me. “I want to feel joy and anger. I want my heart to race. I want to scream and cry and laugh and dance. I want to be…more. Just, more.”

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