The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(5)

I’m not upset about things ending between us, but by Dale’s ho-hum reaction. Which really isn’t fair. I’m fully aware of this. But his complete lack of emotional response stings. His fineness just makes me feel somehow very NOT fine. Not worthy. Not wanted.

I cared more when the heel broke off my favorite pair of red peep-toe pumps than Dale seems to care about this breakup. I actually stood over the trash can, debating about whether I should try some kind of glue or locate a shoe professional. (Is that a thing?) Meanwhile, Dale is simply shrugging and tossing me in a dumpster. I am less than a pair of broken heels to him.

Maybe if Dale did fight for me, if he showed an ounce of care, this relationship would be something worth salvaging. Dale sighs again. He’s clearly been infected by some kind of sighing virus. Or else this breakup is THAT tedious.

“The truth is, I was going to break up with you this week,” he says. “I met someone.”

So much for salvaging. Our relationship is a junkyard car about to go in one of those big car-crushing things, to be flattened and spit out into a metal pancake. Except … I’m the one being crushed.

My breath is trapped somewhere between my trachea and my lungs. Everything feels tight. I try very hard to let the logical part of my brain captain the ship. I was breaking up with him. Who cares if he met someone? I don’t want to be with him anyway. It’s fine.

Except it absolutely isn’t. Knowing he met someone else takes my mind places I don’t want to go. How long ago did he meet her? Did he cheat? I can’t let myself think about these things or I’ll crumble.

“Are you okay, Winnie?”

“I’m fine.”

We’re both quiet for a long moment, and then he says, “I wish you well.”

I wish you’d take a long walk off a short pier, Dale. And by the way, your name sucks.

I hang up, and then I do toss my phone. Just into the yard, not into a wall. Because even if I am throwing a tiny temper tantrum, I’m practical. I can’t afford a new phone right now. Hopefully the grass is soft enough that the screen didn’t crack.

For now, I leave it and walk back into the garage. Val works in her aunt Mari’s garage and lives in the tiny apartment space above. Mari moved from Costa Rica to raise Val and her sisters after their mom ran off. Sofia and Camila didn’t come back to Sheet Cake after college, but Val, like me and Lindy, couldn’t seem to stay away.

Val has a space heater near the door but turned it off a bit ago. She’s working on a large painting, so she’s on her feet, moving back and forth in front of the canvas like a dancer. Since I left to talk to Dale, Val has stripped down into a tank top and boy-shorts underwear. Blue and green streaks cover her bare arms, a bright contrast to her rich brown skin.

I never want to interrupt when Val hits a zone, plus I’m not ready to discuss Dale, so I sink quietly onto a stool. It’s therapeutic, watching her work. I try to let the ugly of my conversation slip away, losing myself in the color and the sound of the brush moving over canvas. The sting begins to ease as Val works.

Art like this is beyond my understanding, which is why I love seeing Val at work. It’s nothing short of inspired. I can do graphic design, but I work with concrete images and shapes. Val’s ability to drip and splatter and mix colors onto a canvas in a meaningful yet abstract way is beyond me. I also love the way Val loses herself in her work, like she has right now. I don’t think she even realizes I came back inside.

I haven’t yet found the thing I can lose myself in, and boy, have I tried. Graphic design, web design, mixology, a brief foray into book blogging. I thought maybe I’d finally found my passion with app development. As proud as I am of the Neighborly app, which I built and actively tested in Sheet Cake, I’m already bored. I can’t bring myself to finalize the updates that would make it ready to sell. If I didn’t get such a kick out of Sheet Cake gossip, I’d already have shut the thing down. Moderating people’s comments on the internet is enough to suck the soul out of anyone.

The ache in my chest grows as Val makes clean, sure strokes on the canvas. I need to find my own thing, something that I feel passionate about.

Or someone.

This brings me back to Dale. Or, not Dale specifically, but the fact I haven’t met a man who makes me feel half of what I see in Val as she paints. My yearlong, just-fine relationship ended in a brief phone conversation, and now, only a few minutes later, I already have so much clarity.

I didn’t love Dale. I’m not even sure how much I liked him.

So … why was I with him? The answer is immediate, and I don’t like it one bit. I was with Dale because he was safe. Just like working as a receptionist for the mayor rather than trying to find a vocational passion—also safe.

I may long for what Val has—for passion and purpose—but I keep on choosing the low-or no-risk options.

A few minutes later, Val steps back, tilting her head to examine the canvas. It looks finished to me, but she groans and drops the brush in a mason jar. Turning around, she blinks when she spots me, as though she totally forgot I was ever here.

“Oh, hey.” Her eyes soften. “How’d the breakup go?”

I shrug. “It was a fitting, anticlimactic end to the most boring relationship in history. One I should have ended months ago.”

“I’m sorry? I mean, I’m not, but if you’re sad, I am.” Val forces her features into what I think is a valiant attempt at sympathy, which misses the mark completely. She looks like she just licked a toad. “Are you sad?”