Page 40 of The Jilted Lovers Club
Grace nods. “We know. Mabel put him in counseling, and it’s helping a little. But he’s still not ready to talk about any of this, and throwing himself into all these duties seems to be holding him together, so we aren’t pushing.”
I nod, and inwardly I promise myself to never judge a person by their paisleys again.
“You know who needs to go with us?” Grace suddenly blurts out. “Michael!”
“Really? You think he’d want to hang with two girls shopping for clothes?”
“Are you kidding? This is the kind of event he lives for.”
Sure enough, Michael immediately flips the “Closed” sign as soon as we tell him our plans.
“While I think everyone here could benefit from dressing like you,” he says as we head to my car, “the least I can do is help you look two steps ahead of the community instead of ten.”
Grace directs me to a cute boutique at the edge of town, one she promises is not the same thrift store Mabel shops at. We head in, and Grace and Michael both immediately abandon me in favor of scouring the racks like pros. I mingle by the nearest rack, thumbing through shirt after shirt. This is so different from any store I shop at, and I’m not sure what I’m looking for.
“Stop that,” Michael says, smacking my hand as I pick up a blouse that’s similar to the one I had on this morning before I changed. Then he places a pile of clothes in my arms. “Go trythese on.” He points at the dressing rooms in the back of the store.
The two of them make me do a fashion show for every outfit. They clap at the ones they like, and frown at the ones that don’t quite hit the mark. In the end, I walk away with a few t-shirts, some sweaters, a few pairs of non-designer jeans, and even a pair of Vans that tie it all together. All of it for a fraction of what one outfit costs me in New York.
“Damn, I’m going to need another suitcase to bring all this home,” I say, then laugh. Grace pretends to wail.
“I keep forgetting you’re leaving! How much longer do you have?”
“About three weeks,” I say, feeling my heart sink.
“Then we don’t have a lot of time,” Michael chimes in.
I look at him and then at Grace, but they’re too busy looking at each other, grinning.
“For what?”
“Paint night!” they say in unison.
And that’s how I find myself sitting in a studio, an apron covering my new casual outfit of a t-shirt and jeans, a very full glass of wine to my right, and a blank canvas in front of me.
I like to think of myself as a creative, crafty person. My job requires me to know how to sketch, and I do a pretty decent job of it.
But painting? Frankly, I suck.
“It’s not fair,” I hiss at Grace, who is already starting to outline the jellyfish we’re supposed to be painting. “You’re just making us do this so you can show us up.”
“Honey, it’s not about the painting,” Michael says on my other side. “It’s about the wine and the gossip.”
“Gossip?” I already feel like I know way too much about everyone in this town. “Don’t you all mind your own business?”
Michael shoots me a look. “Hello, are you new here?”
“Yes,” I reply, then dip my brush in the purple paint.
“Fine. Well, you have some intel that we don’t have, and it’s time for you to spill the goods.”
I roll my eyes. “All I’ve done since I got here is dodge insults and protests, and keep my head down while I do my job.”
Michael and Grace glance at each other, and I realize I’m not in on whatever they’re hinting at. “What are you two eyeing each other about?”
“About the fact that you’ve done something to make that tall, broody farm boy smile in ways we’ve never seen him smile before.”
I gawk at them. “Are you talking about Ashton?”
