♛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.”
Her brows rise. “You still have my number?”
“I never delete the important ones.”
Her whole expression softens. “Then I guess I have to 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 not hiding 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."
"Nope."
He doesn't fight me on it. He leans back, chopsticks dangling in his hand. "Is painting what you really want to do?"
That one catches me off guard. Not because I don’t know the answer—hell, I’ve always known—but because no one’s ever asked me before.
I nod slowly, setting my food down. "My mom was a painter."
"She was brilliant," I add, softer now. "I used to just... watch her. For hours. She made it look like magic. She taught me everything I know. She’s gone now."
"I’m sorry about your mom."
"Thanks," I murmur, rolling my chopsticks between my fingers. Silence settles in. Not awkward. Just heavy.
Then he speaks again. "And your goal?"
I let out a breath. "I’m hoping this is the year. The year I finally make enough to cut ties financially. No more relying on my father."
The look he gives me is sharp. "You still depend on him?"
I shrug, a little defensive. "Not like I have much choice. Art doesn’t exactly pay the bills when you’re starting out."
Also, let’s be real, my father doesn’t bankroll me out of affection. He does it because I’m part of his image. A prop. As long as I don’t embarrass him, he keeps the cash flowing. Love? Yeah, that’s not part of the package.
"Your turn," I change the subject.
"For what?"
"For me to ask you something."
He nods…he’s giving me five minutes before shutting down again.
"Did you always want to do what you’re doing now?"
His shoulders tighten. "No."
"A pilot?" I guess, raising an eyebrow.
He nods. Straight-faced.
"Liar," I shoot back.
Mikhail just shrugs, the picture of unbothered. I laugh. "Already reached your vulnerability quota for the night, Misha?"
"Stop calling me Misha."
"But it suits you."
"It doesn’t."
"It really does."
His glare lacks any real heat. If anything, it’s amused. I smirk. "You know, this is kind of a big deal."
"What is?"
"You coming here. You always wait for me to show up. But tonight? You knocked."
His eyes flicker with something I can’t place.
"You missed me," I say.
He holds my gaze, then mutters, "Eat your food, Lola."
And God, do I light up.
Because that’s not a denial.
Progress.