Page 141 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“Really?” My eyes widen in surprise. “It’s only been open for like”––I check the time on my phone––“ten minutes.”

“I know. Exciting, right?” she gushes.

I smile, almost at peace for the first time in what feels like forever. “Yeah, it is. Thanks for coming tonight.”

“You know we wouldn’t miss it,” my dad reminds me, reaching for Peanut’s car seat. “Here, let me take this. Her car seat must be heavy.”

Grateful for the reprieve, I hand the car seat holding a sleeping Penny to him and pull my dad into a side hug, surprised by how much I need him here tonight. How much I need them both.

“Seriously,” I continue. “Thank you. For being here and for…trying.”

“Thank you for letting us,” my dad murmurs, dropping a kiss to the top of my head. “Let’s get inside. Your whatever he is”––Dad smirks––“is waiting for you.”

The gallery is pretty small, but it’s already packed with people. So many, I feel claustrophobic.

Or maybe it’s the impending doom I feel closing in on me, making me feel twitchy and like I can’t breathe. It doesn’t matter, though. Tonight isn’t about me. It’s about Milo.

He deserves this.

He deserves this more than anyone.

I weave around a couple in black turtlenecks and skinny jeans, my parents trailing behind me as I search for him. The white walls and giant spotlights make it easy to appreciate the various canvases, along with a few white podiums peppered throughout the open room holding different pieces made from clay, marble, and even recycled trash. They’re all beautiful, but I don’t take the time to appreciate any of them.

Honestly, I don’t care enough to do so.

The only thing––the only person––I want to see right now is Milo. I would’ve given anything to drive together. To keep him in sight. To keep him close enough where I can touch him anytime my nerves get the best of me. I need the reminder that he’s real, he’s still here, and I haven’t screwed up our relationship beyond repair.

Yet.

Indecision gnaws at my lower gut as I scan the room, standing on my tiptoes to get a better view of the layout in hopes of finding the love of my life. When I see him near the back of the room talking to an older gentleman, I skid to a halt. The stranger kind of reminds me of the food critic fromRatatouillewith his long, skinny face, slicked-back hair, and glasses propped on the tip of his nose. My breath hitches as I take in how serious they both look while analyzing Milo’s piece.

“Who’s Milo talking to?” Mom asks, catching up to me.

I shake my head slightly, though I don’t look away from him. “No idea.”

As if he can feel my gaze, Milo looks over at me, a soft smile etched across his handsome features as he nods at whatever the critic is saying.

“Is that his piece?” Mom asks beside me, her voice hushed.

Blinking slowly, I tear my gaze from Milo to the giant canvas behind him. My heart rate slows yet almost spikes at the same time as I take in his masterpiece.

At first, all I can see are a mess of lines, but as I stare at them longer, a shape takes hold. There’s an arm with a blotch of yellow on its forearm and fingers spread wide as it stretches toward something barely out of reach. You can feel the strain, the need, the desperation. And on the other side of the piece is another mess of waves.

I squint my eyes and tilt my head to the side as I take in the curves resembling a person’s back. It’s almost like someone is curled in on themselves, barely holding it together with her knees pressed to her chest. Lonely. Isolated. Long, wavy strokes of charcoal cover the face, but it doesn’t stop me from recognizing the similarities.

It’s me. Holding something. It looks as if it was added to the piece later yet fits perfectly. It’s a bundle of gray and yellow splotches looking eerily similar to a certain blanket of Penny’s covered with long-necked animals.

When I recognize what it is, I finally fall over the edge and cover my mouth with my hand, blinking back tears.

Me and Penny.

Just out of reach.

Because I’m lying to him, and he can feel it. The distance. The barrier between us no matter how much we both want to break it down. The realization kills me, causing my heart to splinter into a million pieces of regret.

“Hey, Mads,” Milo greets me. Unsure. Hesitant.

I jump in surprise and clutch at my chest but still feel like I’m about to have a mental breakdown in the middle of the gallery.

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