Page 24 of Beautifully Deranged

Her brows rise. “You still have my number?”

“I never delete the important ones.”

Her whole expression softens. “Then I guess Ihaveto come.”

“You better. It wouldn’t feel right without you.”

We wander the aisles like old times, falling back into the rhythm. She tells me about the design firm she’s working at, how she still paints when she’s not buried in deadlines.

“My mom’s never going to let me live this down.”

I raise a brow. “Live what down?”

She gives this awkward laugh and rubs the back of her neck. “You know. The whole ‘wasting my Yale scholarship on an art degree’ thing.” She tries to play it off, but I notice her shoulders go just a bit rigid.

I roll my eyes. “Well, she’s an idiot.”

Ava snorts.

At checkout, she reaches for her wallet, but I beat her to it. “Lola—what are you—”

“Shhh,” I say. “It’s a thank you gift for not leaving me to deal with those hellish classes alone.”

“You really haven’t changed.”

“And you’re still as sweet as ever.”

She shifts on her feet. “So… I’ll see you Saturday?”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” I say. And I mean it.

And with that, we part ways.Walking back to my apartment, I catch myself grinning like a total idiot.Reconnecting with Ava felt like getting a piece of myself back. A piece I didn’t even realize had gone missing until it snapped right into place.

Since I moved to New York, my social life’s been... well, let’s call it “selective.” Clark’s sweet, our concierge with the dry humor and soft eyes. Then there's Mikhail. And that’s it. That’s the full roster. Still, weirdly enough, I haven’t felt lonely. Just... pared down. Like I trimmed all the excess and what’s left is just the essentials.

I get inside, dump my stuff by the door, but I don’t even pretend I’m going to put it away. My brain’s not here. It’s with him.Mikhail.God. That man. I lean against the back of the couch, teeth sinking into my bottom lip. Even after the verbal landmine my father dropped on him, he didn’t shut down or walk away.

He stood there and defended me. And that kiss? Jesus.I press my fingers to my mouth. I swear I can still feel him there.I love him.The thought lands softly. It’s been circling for a while, and it’s finally decided to sit down. I’m not afraid of it.

But there’s something in him that holds him back. I see it. In his eyes, in the tight line of his mouth when I get too close. He wants this. Wants me. But it’s like there’s a wall behind his ribs that won’t come down. It’s fine. I can wait.

Nothing clears my head like paint. Sleeves up. Brushes out. I start. Time gets weird when I’m painting. Hours slip by like minutes. The world narrows to color and light and movement. I’m chasing something I can’t quite name, but I know I’ll recognize it when I catch it. By the time I finally finish, my whole body hurts. My fingers are stained, my back’s screaming, and my legs feel like wet noodles. But it’s mine. All of it. Every line, every shade, every brushstroke.

A knock sounds and I shuffle toward the door. I peek through the peephole and see Mikhail, who’s absolutely nothiding how annoyed he is. There’s a plastic bag hanging from his hand, and I’m instantly curious. "You didn’t come over today," he grumbles.

"I was painting, Misha."

His scowl deepens. I guess that wasn’t the answer he wanted. He bulldozes inside the second I open the door a little wider. He lifts the bag. "I brought Chinese."

He brought me dinner.My insides go gooey. "You’re cute when you sulk," I tease.

"Don’t."

We plop down on the couch, and he starts pulling out the food, the smell nearly makes my stomach eat itself. We eat. It’s casual, easy. A little messy. Just like this weird, undefined thing we’ve got going on. Mid-noodle, he looks at me and goes, "The exhibition."

"You’re coming," I order.

His eyebrows lift. "That wasn’t a question."

---