Page 23 of Beautifully Deranged

The rest of the day unfolds differently than I expect. She stays and moves around my space like she belongs here.She takes over the couch, tucking her legs beneath her, flipping through channels until she settles on some old crime show. I sit beside her, stretching my arm along the backrest. For a while, we don’t say a word. I pretend to watch the screen, but I’m not paying attention to anything.

"You don’t have any snacks, do you? I need something to munch on."

My gaze drops to her mouth before I can stop it. I’m the one who looks away first. "There’s a store down the block," I mutter. "Go wild."

She rolls her eyes. "You’resohelpful, Mikhail."

But she stands anyway. At the door, she pauses and glances at me over her shoulder. "You coming?"

I push up from the couch, already reaching for my keys. The city hums around us. A distant siren cuts through the quiet. She slips her arm through mine. I freeze. Not because I don’t like it. Because I do. More than I should.

She doesn’t seem to notice the war waging in my head. I force myself to stay put. My body is wired for something else…violence, control, dominance. Not this.

Inside the store, she grabs a basket and starts tossing things in. Chips. Chocolate. Some kind of overpriced fruit candy. She’s completely at ease. She catches me staring and smirks. "What?"

I shake my head. "Nothing."

Nothing.

Except everything.

?Chapter Twelve?

LOLA

The smell hits me the moment I walk into the art supply store: paint and paper. I don’t need a list, it’s all in my head. The exhibition’s creeping up, and I’ve got too many unfinished canvases staring me down at home. It’s not the time to second-guess. I grab a basket. My fingers trail over brush handles as I walk, but only a few make the cut. The deep blue oil I’m nearly out of is right where it always is. Jackpot.

“Lola?”

The voice tugs at something buried but familiar. I turn. And there she is. Shorter hair now, curling at her jaw. Those same glasses though, same spark behind them. “Ava?” I laugh. “No way. It’s been forever.”

She flashes a grin. “Seriously. What, a year?”

“Close enough,” I say. “You good?”

“Oh, you know. Work’s chaos. And I’m pretending my fourth coffee of the day doesn’t count.”

I glance down, she’s holding sketchbooks and a new set of pencils. “Still drawing?”

She shrugs, almost sheepish. “A little. Nothing fancy. Just for me.”

“You always had this… softness in your work. You remember that piece you did? That charcoal one, the woman by the lake?”

Her eyes widen. “You remember that?”

“Of course I do. It was haunting. In the best way.”

She blushes. “Okay, well—you’re the one with an actual exhibit coming up, so I should be the one fangirling.”

Wait. I blink. “How do you even—?”

“You think I’m not lurking in art circles?” she teases. “Your name’s been floating around.”

“Damn. Word really gets around.”

She nudges me. “C’mon, spill. When is it?”

“Saturday. Whitmore Gallery, seven.” I’m already digging out my phone. “I’ll send you the invite.”

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