Page 76 of Partnering with the Artist

I think I could like just about anything if I eat it with her. Kissing her hand again, I say, “That sounds like an excellent plan. I especially love the part where it means we’ll be leaving no later than seven.” My eyes dart to the clock, discover it is several minutes past twelve, when we left at nine, and were supposed to arrive at eleven.

The meal her parents have planned for us has officiallybeen going cold. Also, they had to make it by themselves. No opportunity for me to offer to help. Another bad mark against me. And if I know anything about perfection, one error ruins it.

It’s too late for me to be perfect.

And. Just…

I glance at Maelin, who has begun talking faster about the ramen place. She is so excited over the notion she can affordappetizersit hurts.

Justlook at her.

Perfection is nothing less than she deserves, and I’ve got a punctuation mark on my wrist that says—for a long, long while there—I was very near ready to kill myself.

Perfection, I am not.

Proving as much, every cell in me contorts when her parents’ neighborhood comes into view, displaying the rows of cookie-cutter houses. Brittle lawns spot the cramped yards. Chipping paint matches the dark sky, which chooses this moment—a minute before we must exit the vehicle—to open up on us.

Maelin’s smile evaporates as she looks toward the heavens. “Huh.”

“Pathetic fallacy,” I murmur.

“What?”

I shake my head and pull in beside a minivan when Maelin, regaining her excitement, points at the right driveway.

Breathing gets harder. “What’s the plan?” I ask.

“We honk.”

I whip my attention to her. “What? I mean, once we get in there, what do I do?” Prostrate myself on my knees in supplication? Beg forgiveness for my tardiness? Take full responsibility for not checking the weather or the traffic ahead of time? It’s not like me. I need to figure out how—without listing an excuse—to very firmly suggest that I am not usually like this.

I’m just…

Terrified.

Maelin reaches across the console and beeps my horn.

I go as pale white as her skin, hair prickling up and down my arms. Breathless, I whisper, “Why did you just do that?”

“Because it’s raining. And I didn’t bring an umbrella.”

I have an umbrella. It’s small. But it exists. But I’m not ready. But—

My heart collides with my uvula as the front door opens, and the mammoth of all umbrellas completely blocks a man I barely caught a glimpse of. He swings the umbrella high, grinning with Maelin’s smile as he plods out into the rain, waving eagerly at me before sweeping to Maelin’s door. She pops out and into his arms without fear.

Without fear, she is hugging her father.

I have never hugged a father before.

I…hope he doesn’t expect to hug me.

Squeezing her tight, he kisses her forehead a dozen times then leans down to look in at me. Green eyes. NotMaelingreen, but who could truly haveMaelin greenother than Maelin? “Hold on. I’ll come back for you.”

He closes my passenger-side door.

I contemplate throwing the engine back on and driving away with a speed that might put Hermes to shame. But. Problem.

Helpless, I watch the man—Maelin’sfather—take my Maelin up the sidewalk, to the front door, and deliver her to a woman with short dark hair like Morana’s. They embrace. And I have about four seconds to come to terms with the fact I have entered the territory of a family that hugs, because her father is coming back, heading my way, going to be at my door in two seconds.

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