Page 125 of Fresh Canvas
Hope blazed to life in my chest. “But I—I really messed up, Kate. I don’t even know where to begin?—”
“For crying out loud, Val! I’m not holding your hand through this. Figure it out on your own.” She swept her glossy curtain of black hair over her shoulder and stalked to the door.
“Thank you, Kate.”
She hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Don’t hurther again, or I really will have you killed this time.” Then she swept out of the room.
I attempted to process the conversation. Guilt and hope made an interesting concoction in my chest, heavy even beneath the flutter of possibility. Was it possible Amantha hadn’t moved on after all? Camilla was right—I’d never forgive myself if I didn’t try.
Right now.
Heart thrumming in my throat, I reached for my phone, searched for Amantha’s contact, and pressed “call.”
The phone began to ring.
AMANTHA
After heaving my last moving box from the city apartment onto the dining room table, I shoved a damp wave back up into my messy mom bun.
I had been beyond lucky to find a tenant so fast for the remainder of my lease. I still wasn’t sure if the new renter thought me generous or insane since I re-gifted Val’s brand new couch to them. I didn’t tell them about my “Plan B” to let Mr. Fluff Buttons rip it to shreds. It would have only reinforced the level of unhinged I probably seemed.
The morning had gone by slower than a bathroom line in an Indian restaurant. Ryan had promised to call after Anthony's check-up, which had ended over an hour ago. I chewed my lip, checking my watch for the umpteenth time.
A familiar melody began to chime from across the room, my phone dancing across the kitchen counter.
Chest pounding, I rushed to the kitchen counter, skidding across the smooth hardwood floor. The vibrating phone continued to ring on the countertop before I scooped it up.
“It’s about time, Ryan,” I said.
My fingers turned to stone as another dropped into mystomach. It wasn’t Ryan calling about Anthony’s checkup. Instead, Val’s name and contact photo filled the screen.
His golden-flecked eyes crinkled up at me, blue and yellow paint forever immortalizing his lopsided smile. My oblivious heart sang at the memory of crushing paint pods as his lips crashed into mine. I swallowed.
What is he calling to say?
Surely he knew I’d left the museum by now. Was he calling to convince me to stay on? Or was this call personal?
The phone continued to tickle my palm.
“A clean break,”I told myself firmly.
But despite all logic, a part of me wanted to hear his velvety voice just one last time.
I stopped again before I could accept the call.
Even if he did apologize, could I trust it? Trusthim?
Anger drew my finger to the red icon where it hovered, millimeters away from declining it.
But I was too weak to do that either.
So I helplessly blinked down until the feeble chiming gave up.
No voicemail.
I let out a breath I hadn’t been aware of.
Mom walked into the kitchen and asked, “Was that Ryan? What did he say about Anthony?”
