Page 116 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“It’s not that I don’t want more,” Eden hedged. “It’s just I don’t see how more is possible. My parents hate him. More importantly his parents hate me. He’s not a rebel, guys. He’s a go-along to get-along kind of guy. And while that works in a lot of situations, it doesn’t make for a good romantic relationship. He already dumped me once for them.”
“Eden, he was eighteen. No guy is lady-smart at that age,” Layla pointed out.
Eden’s thoughts turned back to their conversations. The concessions Davis made to his father, the sneaking around, the bypassing, the biding his time. Why would that Davis suddenly decide to draw the line and take a stand now?
She put her head down on the counter. “I have so many feelings.” And none of them were good. Her watch vibrated on her wrist.
Mom: Are you done dating that doofus yet? I want to make sure I’m there to witness the big breakup!
Eden groaned.
“So, what’s the actual problem here?” Layla asked, popping the biscuits into the microwave.
“The problem is I don’t know what I want,” Eden told her. Which was a lie. She knew what she wanted, but it wasn’t possible. Davis Gates would never defy his parents to be her happily ever after.
“Well, you’ve tried mortal enemies, and you’ve tried hot and steamy bed buddies,” Sammy said. “Why don’t you try being friends?”
“Friends?” Eden repeated. The word felt funny in her mouth. Were the feelings she had wrapped up around Davis friendly? Or were they much, much more?
45
“Next, we’re going to take a little of the green and a little of the blue and mix them together on your palette.” Davis demonstrated, holding his palette up so his students could see.
Aretha, a skinny woman in her fifties who had narrowly avoided assault charges stemming from a fight she started at the bookstore during last month’s astrological apocalypse, raised her empty wine glass.
The tasting room attendant, Coriander, a helpful pink-haired college dropout, hurried over with a new bottle of Pinot Grigio. The dry run for Blue Moon Winery’s paint night wasn’t very dry. The class had already put away four bottles, and they were only twenty minutes into the class.
“Good,” Davis said, even though half of his students had mixed the wrong colors. Following instructions wasn’t Blue Moon’s strong suit. Residents didn’t like anything that challenged their creative freedom. Which was why twenty-two women and Fitz were abstractly slathering acrylics on canvas. Davis had considered a step-by-step landscape or even the standard bowl of fruit. But there was something satisfying about turning everyone loose on their own blank canvases with minimal direction. “Now, try out that fan brush in the shade you just created.”
He put his palette down, picked up his wine, and strolled down the first line of tabletop easels. They’d reconfigured the long tasting tables into stations fit for amateur painters.
Kicking off yet another venture hadn’t been on his to do list. Not with the fire, the winery, the HeHa Festival, and then, of course, Eden’s sudden claim that the feelings he knew she was feeling weren’t real…
Something had happened, a head injury or perhaps a visit from the ghost of feuds past, and the woman was suddenly hellbent on being his friend.
She’d been leaving little breakfast sandwiches wrapped in paper bags outside his room every morning. Texting him funny pictures of the dogs. Leaving candies on his pillow like she did for the rest of her guests. And she’d insisted on planning the winery’s first paint class.
She was the one who had found the bulk discount art supplies online and the one who posted about it in the town’s Facebook group. And now that same crazy woman was currently glaring at her canvas in the next row between her friends Sammy Ames and Eva Cardona.
It was her consolation prize for him, Davis assumed. She’d turned him down flat, claiming no interest in a relationship beyond their current arrangement that was due to end in three days. So here, have a paint night.
Unfortunately for her, Davis wasn’t interested in a consolation friendship or her pity art class. He’d been busy avoiding her rather than seeking her out. He’d missed every Snack Time and breakfast this week, and when she’d come knocking on his door two nights ago, he’d pretended he was in the middle of a conference call. So she’d organized this whole thing as a sort of apology. An olive branch. A friendship bracelet.
And he wasn’t biting.
The look she was shooting him now, the one he was studiously ignoring, singed him. She was as miserable as he was. Davis was sure of it. And they were still supposed to put on the “happy couple” face for the Beautification Committee until HeHa. That happy couple face might be the death of him.
A glance over Freida Blevins’s shoulder showed Davis the violent swath of turquoise she was working across her canvas. “Nice job, Freida,” he offered.
“I’m a natural,” she insisted, shimmying her shoulders, silver cactus earrings dancing from her lobes.
Mrs. Nordemann worked her paint brush with a rigid wrist and the tip of her tongue peeking out of the corner of her unpainted lips. Near as Davis could tell, she was painting the Grim Reaper in a sea of morbid purples. But the reaper was smiling, and so was Mrs. Nordemann.
He continued his rounds, offering advice and compliments until he got to Eden’s row. He didn’t even care about revenge at this point. The whole thing felt like one big loss. They’d all have been better off if the Beautification Committee had left them alone.
What was upsetting him now was the fact that Eden honestly believed that he wouldn’t take a stand for what he wanted. That he wouldn’t stand up to his parents. Which was ridiculous. He was a grown man and—
The thought stopped him mid-stride. Reality—and Elvira Eustace’s fuchsia and tangerine masterpiece—punched him in the face, searing his eyes with the technicolor truth.
