Page 119 of Sparking Sara

Denver grabs my hand and holds it in his. “Stop it. You’re different now. The past is the past.”

I shake my head. “He was sleeping with Anna,” I say. “You know that as well as I do. You read the texts yourself. Anna—as in the girl who died in the accident. I knew he was sleeping with her, and apparently I didn’t care that much because I was with her that day. I know we were on our way to confront him with what he’d done. But still, based on the texts, it seemed like we were friends.” I cringe at the word, because based on the tone of my texts, I couldn’t have had anytruefriends. “Did I think so little of myself that I could turn the other cheek when he was cheating on me? Did I think so little ofhimthat I thought it was okay to sleep with Benny?”

Denver rubs his thumb across my knuckles as he holds my hand. It’s a rhythmic motion that calms me. He doesn’t say anything else. I’m not sure there is anything he can say. I was who I was, and nothing he says can change it.

The cab pulls up to my building and I look up at it, thinking of how it’s just another reminder of a past I don’t want. “Will you help me get rid of his things? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“Of course,” he says. “It’s not a lot to ask. I’m happy to help.” He motions across the street. “There’s a UPS store. Why don’t I get some boxes and meet you upstairs?”

When I walk into my apartment, I leave the door open for Denver. Then I look around and realize I have no idea what is Oliver’s and what is mine. I step into my studio and run my hand along the edge of my parents’ old door. This is the only room that truly feels like it belongs to me.

I sink down to the floor and put my head into my hands, wondering how I got here. After a few minutes of self-loathing, I look up at one of my paintings. It’s one of my mom and dad. “I’m sorry I’m such a disappointment,” I say. “I know you wanted better of me. I know youexpectedbetter of me.”

“Who are you talking to?” Denver asks from the living room.

I quickly get up and wipe my eyes before I join him. “No one.”

He’s got a dozen boxes under his arm. “Where should we start?” he asks. “His clothes?”

I shake my head. “No. We’ll start withmyclothes.”

“Yourclothes?”

He draws his brows at me.

“I realized when I walked into the apartment that I don’t know what’s his and what’s mine. The only things I know for sure that are mine is my studio and my clothes. I don’t want anything else. Even if we get rid of what we think was his, it won’t change the fact that I still don’t know this place. I hate it here, Denver.” I pick up the gold-rimmed wine glass that Oliver said was my favorite. I throw it against the wall, smashing it to pieces. “This place is everything I’m not. It’s part of a past I don’t want. Is that stupid of me? To want to leave everything behind and start fresh?”

He kicks a shard of glass out of the way. Then he smiles at me. He smiles at me and somehow, I know everything will be okay.

“It’s not stupid at all, Sara. Let’s get started,” he says, putting together one of the boxes.

I nod back to my studio. “There’s too much for the two of us to move,” I say.

“Let me take care of that,” he says. “We can go ahead and get your things packed, but we’ll just take the essentials for now.”

Denver is quiet as we’re packing my belongings. Every once in a while, he pulls out his phone and sends a text. I begin to think that despite his honorable efforts, he might just be getting sick of coming to my rescue. Maybe he’s texting Nora. And I can’t help but wonder if she gets mad at all the time he spends with me. I know I would if I were her.

Suddenly, he stops packing and sits on the bed. “Where will you go?” he asks.

“I, uh … I hadn’t really gotten that far.”

“Stay with me,” he says. “Just until you figure out what you want to do.”

“With you?” I ask. “In your sister’s townhouse? That’s a huge imposition, Denver.”

“It’s a huge townhouse,” he says. “Aspen and Sawyer are hardly ever there.”

“I don’t know. I mean, they don’t even know me. And it’s not like I can’t afford to go to a hotel.”

“You don’t want to stay in a hotel, Sara. Besides, they have a basement that would serve as a great art studio.”

I’ve been to their townhouse before, but I never made it past the first floor. “They do?”

He nods encouragingly.

I think of how difficult it would be to paint while staying in a hotel. It would be nice to be able to paint while I look for a new place.

“Still, it’s not your place to offer,” I say.

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