Chapter 17 Learning and Unlearning
(Arlo)
It had been a week since I'd seen February in that hallway, standing calm, steady, heartbreakingly brave while Lyra spit poison in every direction. A week since I'd said too much and yet somehow not enough. The words still lived under my tongue, restless and unfinished.
Some nights, I replayed the moment she walked away.
Some nights, I replayed the moment she told me not to say I missed her.
Most nights, I replayed all of it at once and didn't sleep at all.
I'd been living at Levi's place ever since. Or, as Levi liked to call it: "my new roommate's emotional support crash site." He was at the stove now, scrambling eggs with dramatic flair while wearing a t-shirt that said If Lost, Return to Fridge.
"You know," he said, swirling the pan like he was cooking for a Michelin star judge, "you should just commit and move in. Split the rent. Officialize this marriage."
I blinked at him. "It's not a marriage."
"Okay, sorry. Domestic partnership." He grinned. "But seriously, Arlo, your toothbrush has been here long enough to start paying bills."
I slumped into a chair. "Yeah. I'm thinking about it."
"Thinking," he mimicked in a high voice, flipping the eggs with exaggerated delicacy. "Bro, you have two pairs of socks in the dryer, a mug labeled 'property of Arlo,' and for some reason my dog snores only next to you now. You live here."
"You don't have a dog."
"Exactly." He pointed the spatula at me. "Explain yourself."
Despite myself, a laugh escaped me. "You're unbelievable."
"And you're homeless but in denial."
Before I could reply, my phone buzzed across the counter.
Twice.
Three times.
A message. I reached for it, expecting Levi's group chat memes or maybe the appointment reminder I'd been ignoring.
But it was from Berrie. My chest tightened as I opened it.
Tell your woman to back off!!
I honestly don't know how you ever thought she was 'fire' or your true love.
She's cruel, rude, insulting. I only volunteer once a week now just to avoid her.
And she still manages to make everyone miserable.
The world seemed to tilt for a moment. I had known Lyra was difficult — hell, I'd lived it — but I thought I'd made it clear after the shelter incident. I thought it was done.
I should've known better. I typed fast.
She's not my woman. She never will be.
I'm so sorry, Berrie. I'll handle it.
I stared at the screen a second longer, my jaw tight, guilt thickening the air around me.
"You okay?" Levi asked, sliding a plate in front of me.
"No," I said honestly.
"Oh boy." He flopped into the seat across from me, elbows on the table. "Is this a scale-of-one-to-your-ex-girlfriend-set-my-slippers-on-fire situation?"
I didn't even blink. "She did that once?"
"Not the point," he said quickly. "But yes. Please continue."
I shook my head and pressed call after unblocking Lyra. She answered instantly, too eagerly.
"Arlo!" she sang. "I can't believe you actually blocked me. I mean—seriously? You? Blocking me? After everything we've been through? How could you just leave me alone and pregnant—"
"What the hell is wrong with you, Lyra?"
The words flew out harsher than I intended, but I didn't pull them back.
She went silent. Then: "Excuse me?"
"No," I said, voice low, steady. "You don't get to be offended. Not this time."
A sharp inhale. "What's your problem?"
"You. You're my problem," I said. "I know what you've been through. I know your childhood hurt you. But it doesn't excuse you being cruel and vindictive, just hurting people who are literally trying to help you."
"Oh please—"
"Stop." I pinched the bridge of my nose, pacing because staying still made the anger worse. "You're going to be a mother, Lyra. Is this who you want to be? Bitter? Spiteful? Snapping at everyone who doesn't fall in line? Is that what you want your kid to grow up seeing?"
She sucked in a sharp breath through the phone, "How dare you call me names. This 'awful' person is the one who saved you—"
"And you don't get to weaponize that," I cut in, my voice low, steady. "Not with me, and sure as hell not with February."
There was a heavy and defensive, pause crackling with her anger.
"Arlo! "
"She has every right to hate you," I said over her rising voice. "But she didn't. She stepped in and did the right thing. That kind of compassion... it's foreign to you but you might want to pay attention."
The line went dead for a second before she hissed, "Unbelievable. Defending her while you tear me down."
"Yes I'm defending a good person you attacked for no reason," I said. "And I'm done letting you do that. So listen carefully: you don't go near her or anyone at that shelter ever again. You will treat them with respect or you won't stay there at all."
"So what, you're threatening me?" she spat.
"Call it whatever you want," I said. "But if they kick you out, I will not — will not — take you back. I won't help you. I won't save you again.."
"Wow..you... really hate me?" she breathed, barely audible.
"No," I said gently. "I don't hate you. I just... I am done with you."
"You're lying," she whispered, wounded.
"Lyra," I said quietly, "what would I gain by lying to you? Truly?"
A broken inhale. "You've changed."
My voice cracked on the reply. "Yeah. I have. I needed to."
She sniffed sharply. "So what? You want me to bow down to Little Miss Sunshine?"
"I want you to behave like a decent human being," I said. "To everyone. But especially to her. Do I make myself clear?"
"Crystal," she replied, every syllable coated in sarcasm. "Yes, sir. Just don't come crying to me when you regret this."
I exhaled, long, tired, and ended the call. Blocked her again. Set my phone down like it was something volatile, waiting to blow.
Levi let out a long, theatrical whistle, the kind only he could make sound like a soundtrack.
"Ho-ly shit. You actually stood up to her."
"Yes."
"Like—actually stood up to her. Full alpha-male monologue. Boundaries. Consequences. Emotional evolution. Are you kidding me?"
"I guess."
He clapped, loudly and dramatically, like a proud parent at a kindergarten recital. "Look at you! Becoming a functioning adult! I'm honestly emotional."
"Shut up." I exhaled. Then quieter. "Has she always been like that?"
"Oh, absolutely." Levi pointed at his own head like he was giving a TED Talk. "She had you under her thumb for years. Like, full Jedi mind control. But finally—finally—you've gained, what, three brain cells? Four?"
"Thanks," I muttered.
"No, really," he said, voice softening in that rare Levi way. "You woke up, Arlo. It's like you were hypnotized this whole time. Under her spell, and somebody finally threw cold water in your face. Took you forever, but hey, better late than never."
I stared down at my hands, pressing my thumbs together like I could hold myself steady.
"It's already too late, Levi."
He leaned back on the chair like a discount therapist who billed in sarcasm. "Look... I love you. Against my will, honestly. But you were not ready for a woman like her."
"What?" I muttered.
"Come on," Levi replied, raising one brow so high it practically touched his hairline. "You were good to her, Arlo. Amazingly good. We all saw how, what's the word—oh yeah—pathetically gone you were. Like a Victorian lady fainting at the sight of a bare ankle."
"Are you done?"
"I'm warming up." He pointed at me like I'd personally committed a crime.
"But you were also holding back the whole time.
Big-time holding back. Like you didn't believe someone like her could stay.
Like you were just waiting for the timer to hit zero so you could say, 'See? I knew it would fall apart.'"
"Well, it did fall apart."
"Yeah." His voice softened, losing the teasing for a moment. "It did. And whose fault was that?"
My breath hitched. I swallowed.
"Mine," I whispered. "Mine. All mine."
Levi nodded solemnly, as though I'd just spoken a sacred truth. "Excellent. That means there's hope you'll stop haunting my apartment like a widow waiting for her husband's ship to return."
I shoved his shoulder. "I have to go. My drawing class starts in twenty minutes."
"Oh right," he said, grinning wickedly. "Your art journey. Tell me, Picasso, have you improved since the last time you drew that cat that looked like a depressed potato?"
"I'm trying," I said, fighting a smile. "And I'm... actually enjoying it."
Levi gasped dramatically. "Arlo enjoying something? Alert the media."
I grabbed my jacket. "Goodbye, Levi."
"Bye! Bring home something pretty! And by something pretty, I mean food!"
I headed out, the cool air loosening the tightness in my chest. The art studio smelled like pencil shavings, acrylic paint, and something warm like quiet lives coming together.
Tonight's lesson was about eyes.
I sat at my usual table, and a soft voice greeted me.
"Oh good, my partner in crime is here," said Mrs. Ellery, the older woman I'd met three weeks ago in drawing class. Her lavender cardigan matched the faded purple of her hair clip, and her smile had the kind of weathered warmth that only comes from surviving life's worst storms.
"Evening, Mrs. Ellery."
"Call me Helen, please," she waved a hand dismissively. "Mrs. Ellery sounds like I should be wearing orthopedic shoes and yelling at children to get off my lawn."
I smiled despite myself. "Helen it is."
She leaned in conspiratorially. "I tried drawing noses at home yesterday. Spent nearly two hours and ended up with something that looked like a melted candle."
"We could start a surrealist portfolio instead," I suggested.
"Oh honey, I'm way ahead of you there."
The instructor moved gracefully across the room as he demonstrated the subtleties of drawing eyes—the faint shadow beneath the lower lid, the delicate shine in the tear duct, the soft gradient that turned a flat iris into something alive.
Beside me, Helen followed along with surprising precision for someone who had loudly claimed at the start of the course that she "couldn't draw a straight line even with divine intervention.
" Her hand trembled ever so slightly, but the strokes she laid down were thoughtful and full of feeling.
When she paused to stretch her fingers, she gave a small, wistful sigh.
"My George always said I had expressive eyes," she murmured, continuing to shade the corner of her drawing.
"He used to look at me like he was reading a whole novel in every glance.
He's been gone five years now, and I still find myself turning to tell him something before remembering he isn't there. "
Her voice was gentle, but the ache beneath it loosened something in my chest. "I'm sorry," I said quietly. "That kind of loss... it doesn't soften easily."
Helen studied my face for a moment, really taking me in. Then she glanced down at my sketchbook, as if she could read the tension in the lines I hadn't yet drawn.
"You've carried your own losses too," she said, not as a question.
I breathed out slowly. "Yeah."
"The past is a strange place," she continued. "We can't live in it, but somehow we never manage to throw away the key either."
I hesitated before asking, "How did you move forward? If you don't mind me asking."
She nodded as if she'd been expecting that.
"One day at a time," she murmured. "When George died, I tried to outrun grief.
I thought if I stayed busy enough, it wouldn't catch me.
" She shook her head softly. "But grief is patient.
It walks right beside you until you finally stop pretending it isn't there. "
Her voice settled into the room like warm water, soaking the edges of the tension in my chest.
She set her pencil down and folded her hands, giving me her full attention.
"Arlo... are you grieving?" she asked gently. "Are you experiencing grief?"
I exhaled slowly, staring at the floor before answering. "Not quite grief," I said. "More like... loss. And mostly regret."
"Regret is a shadow, Arlo," she murmured. "It follows you only when you face the wrong direction. Turn toward tomorrow, and it stays behind you where it belongs."
She waited a moment, letting her words settle between us. I smiled faintly, unable to speak.
"Now," she said, picking up her pencil again, "let's try these eyebrows once more before I lose my patience and start tearing paper in dramatic fashion."
A soft laugh escaped me, and Helen's eyes brightened as if she'd been waiting for it.
Class eventually wrapped up, and as we packed our materials, she rested a gentle hand on mine. "Your Berrie," she said, her voice warm and certain. "She must be someone very special."
I froze. "How did you know her name?"
She smiled, "sometimes you whisper her name when you focus on drawing something without realizing." She touched her temple lightly. "Artists speak with their hands, but their hearts slip out in other ways too. Don't keep yours locked in the past so tightly that nothing new can enter."
I didn't trust myself to answer, so I simply nodded.
For days after that class, I drew compulsively. The shapes, the shadows, the curves of an eyelid—they all pulled something out of me that had been trapped there too long. Page after page, stroke after stroke, until at last a pair of eyes stared back at me with a softness so familiar it almost hurt.
Berrie's eyes.
Dark, but never dull, depth layered upon depth, shadows shifting like something breathing beneath the surface. They held a quiet gravity, a pull that wasn't soft but irresistible, as if a whole world waited behind them. Beautiful in a way that made stillness feel electric.
They saw into me, past every half-truth, every guarded edge, catching pieces of myself I never managed to speak aloud.
And when I finally captured that look on paper, when the lines settled and there she was, unmistakably herself, I exhaled, reached for a notebook, and let the truth spill in words where my voice would have failed.