Chapter 4 Amelia
AMELIA
Iknock on Maya’s office door, my portfolio case heavy on my shoulder, and my stomach growling loud enough to be heard inside, probably.
The winter wind whipped my hair into a disaster on the walk over, and I can feel paint flecks still stuck under my nails despite scrubbing them three times this morning.
“Ready for lunch? I’m starving.”
Maya stares at her laptop like it personally offended her, fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then she does this decisive little movement—shoulders back, chin up—and hits a key with more force than necessary. The laptop snaps shut.
“Just... done.”
“The chocolate review?” I perch on the edge of her desk, careful not to knock over the pen holder. Everything on Maya’s desk has its place, aligned at perfect right angles. “Who’s the victim this time?”
“Adrian Vale.”
My brain does that thing where it takes three different paths at once.
Adrian Vale. The chocolatier. Wait—he’s done other collections before.
Maya mentioned reviewing his holiday truffles last year.
But this is the Valentine’s collection she mentioned on the phone last night.
Expensive. Probably uses Belgian chocolate.
Do I have Belgian chocolate at home? No, focus. Maya’s face is doing that thing.
“The hot chocolatier with the exclusive Valentine’s collection?” The words come out before I fully process them. “I thought you liked his previous work. Didn’t you give his winter collection four stars?”
Maya’s cheeks flush immediately, confirming every suspicion I didn’t know I had. She grabs her coat with jerky movements, and I recognize that energy—it’s the same frantic need to move that hits me when I’m trying not to think about something.
“I did like his work before, but...” She’s already heading for the door. “Something changed. This Valentine’s collection is different.”
I slide off the desk and follow, my portfolio bumping against my hip. “Different, how?”
“It’s hard to explain. The technical execution is flawless, but there’s this emptiness.”
I step in front of her, blocking the doorway. Her face is bright red now, and Maya doesn’t blush easily. “Maya. Your face is bright red. What aren’t you telling me?”
“Nothing.” She pushes past me, and I let her because I know that tone. Press too hard and she’ll shut down completely. “Can we just get lunch? I’m dying for some pad thai.”
“Fine, keep your secrets.” I link my arm through hers as we head down the hallway. “But you know I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
Her phone buzzes. She doesn’t check it, but I notice how her whole body tenses at the sound.
The wind on Michigan Avenue is brutal, cutting through my coat like it’s tissue paper. I huddle closer to Maya, and my portfolio case keeps banging into her hip, but she doesn’t complain.
“I swear, one of these days, I’m moving to California,” I grumble, watching my breath fog in the air. “No artist should have to suffer through Chicago winters.”
“You’d miss the deep dish too much.” Maya dodges a patch of ice with the grace of someone who’s lived here her whole life. “And who would critique your latest paintings over curry?”
“Speaking of critique...” I shoot her a sideways glance, testing the waters. “That review of the Indian place was harsh, even for you.”
We duck into Thai Palace, and the blast of warm air makes my cheeks sting.
The hostess—Mali, who always remembers us—waves us toward our corner booth without asking.
The one with the view of the L tracks, where we’ve dissected everything from failed relationships to art theory over the past five years.
Before my coat is even off, Mali is already taking our order. She knows: pad thai for Maya, green curry for me, extra spicy for both.
I set my hands flat on the table, partly to stop myself from fidgeting with the napkin holder, partly to signal I’m serious. “So. Tell me about these chocolates.”
Maya’s fingers immediately find her chopsticks, rolling them back and forth. “They were just empty. Like biting into beautiful packaging with nothing inside.”
“You’re doing that thing with your face.”
“What thing?”
“That scrunched-up look when you’re holding back. The same one you had when that gallery owner hit on me at your birthday party.”
“He was married!”
“And you waited three whole weeks to tell me.” I kick her gently under the table. “Spill.”
The server drops off our Thai iced teas—perfect timing, giving Maya a reason to pause. She takes this long, deliberate sip, and I recognize the stalling tactic because I use it myself when working on a difficult section of canvas.
“There was one piece,” she finally says. “A dark chocolate truffle that tasted different.”
“Different good or different bad?”
“Both? Neither?” She presses her cold hands against her flushed cheeks. “It’s complicated.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Honey, you’re the only person I know who can make chocolate complicated. But that’s why I love you.”
“Says the woman who spent six months painting nothing but broken mirrors.”
“That was art.” I grin, grateful for the familiar banter. “You’re just being neurotic.”
“Says the woman who alphabetizes her paint tubes by shade gradient.” She reaches across and steals a sip of my Thai iced tea, which is basically a declaration of war in our friendship.
I snatch my drink back. “That’s called organization. And at least I don’t catalog every restaurant receipt by cuisine type, date, AND emotional resonance.”
“It’s a filing system! How else should I track which places make me feel what?” Her hands spread wide, chopsticks still clutched in one. “Last week, I had pad thai that tasted like pure chaos.”
“Normal people just use Yelp stars.” I tap my chopsticks against the table—one-two-three, one-two-three—a rhythm I can’t quite stop. “But no, my best friend has to create spreadsheets with color-coded emotions.”
“Says the person who won’t start painting until her brushes are arranged by size down to the millimeter.”
My cheeks heat. “That’s different. It’s about flow and energy alignment.”
“Right, and the fact that you count your brush strokes isn’t weird at all.”
“Hey!” I point my chopstick at her like a tiny sword. “That one time I lost count at 2,847 and had to start over was justified. The composition was off.”
“And you called me at three a.m. to complain about it.” She adjusts her napkin, making it perfectly square with the table edge, which she probably doesn’t even realize. “Which, by the way, I logged in my Amelia’s Art Crises journal.”
I freeze mid-tap. “You did not.” Pause. “What color tab did you give it?”
“Midnight blue. For both the time of night and your mood.”
We both burst out laughing, drawing looks from nearby tables. I resume tapping my chopsticks because the rhythm helps me think, and Maya’s probably dying to reach over and align them with my placemat, but she restrains herself.
“We’re a mess, aren’t we?” I sigh, but warmth spreads through my chest.
“A perfectly organized mess,” Maya corrects, finally getting her napkin corners just right.
Our food arrives, and the smell is perfect—lemongrass and chili and that specific fish sauce tang. But I notice Maya’s not eating, just staring at her pad thai like it contains the secrets of the universe.
“Earth to Maya?” I wave my hand in front of her face. “You’re doing it again.”
“Sorry.” She takes a bite but makes this little face, like the food isn’t measuring up to something. “Just thinking about work.”
“About work or about tall, dark, and chocolatey?”
She chokes on her noodles, and I immediately feel guilty but also vindicated because I knew something was going on.
“What?”
“Please. Every time I mention Adrian Vale, you either blush or zone out. Sometimes both.” I stir my curry, watching the colors swirl—red chilies, green basil, golden coconut milk. “And right now, you’re doing both.”
“It’s not...” She gulps water. “There was something in that last chocolate. Something... personal.”
My brain immediately goes to twelve different places. Personal. What does personal mean? Drugs? No, Maya would taste drugs. A secret ingredient? Family recipe? Wait—
“Personal how?”
A flush creeps up her neck, that tell she can never hide. “You know how my synesthesia works. How I can taste emotions, intentions...”
“And?”
“And there was definitely something intimate in that final piece. Something that felt like...” Her voice drops to almost a whisper. “Like him. His essence.”
It takes my brain approximately three seconds to catch up, and then— “Wait, are you saying he—”
“I think so.” She pushes her pad thai around, not eating. “But that’s not even the strangest part. The Valentine’s collection had this other ingredient. Something sinister and empty. Like biting into a void.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and suddenly my curry doesn’t smell as appetizing. “That’s creepy. Maybe he’s using some weird experimental ingredients?”
“Maybe.” But her tone says she doesn’t believe that, and I know Maya’s instincts about food the way she knows my instincts about color and composition.
The L train rattles past our window, and I watch Maya’s face in profile.
She’s scared. But there’s something else there too—something I recognize from my own face when I’m about to mix a color I’ve never tried before, about to put a brushstroke on canvas that might ruin everything or might be exactly right.
She’s fascinated.
“Maya,” I say carefully, the way you’d approach a skittish cat or a too-wet painting. “Whatever this is with Adrian Vale... just be careful, okay?”
She meets my eyes, and for a moment, I see my best friend clearly—brilliant, brave, and walking toward something that might consume her completely.
“I will,” she promises.
We both know she’s lying.