Page 128 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

To say I have no idea what I’m doing would be a massive understatement. My online store has been getting a little bit of traction, but no sales. Not that I expected any different.

My social media accounts sit at zero followers, and my website hasn’t had a single visit so far.

To be fair, it only went live yesterday, and I haven’t done any advertising. That’s a whole other story that’ll require tons of research and time.

“All done.” Drea unplugs my hair straightener, places it down onto my desk, and makes her way over.

Her perfectly straight, purple hair falls down her shoulders, stopping inches below her breasts, and she’s wearing a cute gray dress with stunning cat-eye eyeliner—the kind that usually takes me a decade to do, but she somehow managed to make each side even on her first try.

My focus darts to my phone again.

Maybe I should change my logo?

I did what I could with Photoshop, sticking a heart on top of a pale blue watercolor stain with the name of my business on it, but I’m no graphic designer.

“You should get ready. Jamie will be at Vince’s place in an hour,” Drea advises, and I give a small nod.

I only realize she’s peeking over my shoulder when she says, “What’s that?”

“Oh, it’s, um… It’s nothing. Just a little something I’m working on.”

Her brows shoot up to her forehead as she reaches for my phone. “May I?”

I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. “Sure.”

She starts to scroll through my store, checking all of my paintings. “Holy shit. Did you do this?”

She zooms in on the painting of a multicolored bird flying away, leaving a few of his feathers behind. The sun reflects on each of them, giving the floating feathers a pink-and-orange glow. “You’re crazy talented.”

A pit of emotion stretches my throat. “You think so?”

“Do I think so? Girl, I want all of these hanging above my bed.” She hypes me up, and it’s like a breath of fresh air infiltrated my lungs.

That’s the thing about artists.

We’re alone with our creations for so long we forget to look at them through the eyes of the person discovering parts of our souls for the first time.

We leave a little bit of us in each song, book, or painting we complete, and hearing someone else appreciate something we’ve poured all of our bleeding hearts into is incomparable.

I’m afraid I might cry when she taps the “Add to basket” button and proceeds to buy not one but two of my paintings right in front of me—the painting of the bird and one of a diamond heart that looks like it’s disintegrating, glitters amassing on the floor beneath it.

I make sure to tell her she doesn’t have to do that, but she forges ahead, becoming my first customer with a click of her finger.

My heart swells with joy when my phone chimes with an email notification, informing me of my first sale.

I throw myself into Drea’s arms as soon as she puts her phone down, and she laughs. “Now, you get your talented ass into the bathroom and do your hair, or we’re going to be late.”

I chuckle, taking her advice and racing to the bathroom to do my hair. It’s a good thing my makeup’s already done because my hair is a bitch to curl.

Drea came through with her magnetic lashes and bronze and copper eyeshadow. I opted for a black off-the-shoulder bodysuit and pale blue jeans tonight, and I look like a new girl.

“Oh, and you’re never going to guess who changed his mind at the last minute,” she tells me as we’re racing down the stairs a half hour later.

I grip the railing. “Kane?”

She snorts. “Looks like he didn’t want to be the only one not invited after all.”

Fuck.

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