Page 501 of Hate Mates

“About the shell or about your landlord. About the party and the noise.”

“She would apologize,” I admit, my voice shaking. I’ll sob out loud when I get home, but not in front of Anne. Not right now. “She would try to make it right. She would have gotten another shell but I didn’t. Are you saying I should try again?”

“I’m saying that knowledge of your mom can’t be broken. It will always be with you.” Anne gives me an encouraging smile. “But maybe it would be worth trying again. Go get another shell, it’s okay that it’s not the same day. You can talk to your landlord. You can do whatever you want to do. Whatever your gut is telling you is right.”

With a rolled up tissue in my hand, I blink away the tears and nod. In my mind though I see Parker and my gut sinks. It’s a shitty feeling and even worse when I know I will not be able to explain this to him. If I do, I’ll break down and he’ll think I’ve lost it even more than he probably already does.

Chapter Five

PARKER

No matter what happens, I usually paint or sketch or get some kind of art in if I can. Good day at the beach? Have to replace the pieces so I have more to sell. Bad day at the beach? Need to have more pieces ready to sell next time. Different pieces. New things to try. Slow winter? Same thing.

Today… it’s coming a little harder than normal. Could be cause the sky is gray and the ocean moody. Or it could be that I can’t stop thinking about her.

The conversation with Luna bothers me, and I can’t think about it without a brush in my hand. She must’ve already been upset before I saw her. Had to be. She needed a hug, not a lecture. How the hell was I supposed to know though?

And upset about what exactly? What could have made her so angry that fast? What could have made her so sad over a seashell? It’s not like she mentioned anything when she signed the lease on the condo.

But I wish I knew.

Clouds roll in over town on Monday afternoon, confirming my decision to spend the day in the store. I don’t have many customers, which was hit or miss. On some cloudy days, peopleshop. On others, they don’t come into town at all and spend the day at home.

I spend it painting and thinking about Luna.

NowI have to talk to her. I don’t want that conversation to get to her. I don’t want her to think I’m a dick who spends all my time thinking of ways to ruin her day. I should’ve approached it better the first time, but I didn’t think she’d react like that. Zero to a hundred in about ten words. What exactly to say and do escapes me though.

I don’t put her in one of my paintings, but I do put a woman at the edge of the canvas, wearing a blue dress and walking along the shore. Barely happens on purpose. I’m just thinking about her, and there she is, in the scene. I’ve painted the beach a thousand times at least, so it comes easy to me.

I spend the last hour before the store closes rearranging pieces on the walls and shelves and putting out a collection of sketches I did a few summers ago. If they’re right in front, they’ll catch somebody’s eye. The fact that they haven’t sold just means I haven’t found the right place for them yet.

Then I close up and go home to paint some more. I think about Luna in the condo with all her friends and how loudthey were. Tonight, the condo is practically silent. I catch myself listening for signs that she’s still there, which is none of my damn business, even if we do share a wall. Water runs a few times. A door closes, I think, but I can’t be sure because it’s too quiet.

She’s doing that on purpose. Has to be.

Because she’s angry, or because she’s nervous about what I might do?

I put on headphones and music and paint, not listening anymore. I try not to listen when I go to bed that night. I tell myself over and over that there’s nothing to listen for.

I keep doing it anyway.

Tuesday flies by, and still I think about her. I sell even more pieces than Monday and forget to stop for lunch. For the first time in a while, I’m worried about not having enough stock. I have a few artists sending more work in when they have it. Might have to get more though. Especially the painted shells. There are a few women up the street who do decoupage and paint shells with gold edges. I’m nearly out of all of them. A good amount of stock is stored up the street in a storage unit so I make a mental note that I need to make a visit.

Wednesday’s a lull in the middle of the week before the next wave of people comes on the weekend, but my friend Brian, who I’ve known since forever, texts me that he’s in town. His SUV is twice the size of my car, so I invite him over, then put him to work.

He doesn’t mind hanging out at the store, so we load up the paintings and make sure none of them will get dented up, then stop for some of the coffee he likes at one of the cafes, and then he comes along with me.

Well—he drives me and the paintings to the store. It’s nice having somebody there to talk to. I’m by myself most of the time, and I guess I didn’t notice how much I got into my own head. Brian catches me up on his job in the city—pays well, but it’s stressful—and the last date he went on—unsuccessful—and carries pieces into the store with me.

Of course, with all the new pieces, we have some rearranging to do.

“How’s your renter doing? Luna, right?” he asks while we’re on opposite sides of the store.

Shit. I forgot I even told him about her. For the first time all week, I hadn’t thought about her since I got to work. I let out a sigh.

“Doesn’t sound good.” Brian laughs. “Can’t be that bad, can it? She late on the rent or something?”

“Had a run-in with her the other day. She and her friends had a party last Friday night that kept me up.”

---