32. Midnight Rain #2
“You know me. Married to my work, right?” He forces a gentle smile, though sadness shadows his eyes. “She’ll keep me warm.”
“Instead of me?”
He leans closer again, thumb brushing tenderly against my cheek. “No one could ever replace you”
“So, you’re terminating the arrangement?”
He hesitates, eyes flickering with sorrowful humor. “Let’s call it a suspension of services.”
“Indefinitely?” I ask, not sure if I’m ready for the truth.
“I’ll have my lawyer get back to you.”
After a moment, he shifts in his seat, he cups my face and plants another kiss on my forehead. How I long for his lips. How I long for our complicated arrangement.
But he said he needs space. He wants space.
He pulls away, leaving me frozen on the couch, heart heavy, as the quiet click of the studio door marks his departure.
The room and my heart feel emptier than ever before. I crumple into a heap of tears and ragged sobs.
After I peel myself off the studio floor, I reach for my phone and text Riley.
Elena
Hey, are you home?
Riley
At Bushwick. You okay?
Elena
I don’t know. Can I hang?
Riley
Of course.
“Luca,” I call out.
I hear the scuff of his boots before he appears. I pack up my things, then turn to find him standing in the doorway.
We lock eyes, and the reflection of his expression tells me everything.
Months of stitching myself back together—of leaning on Broderick, of pretending I’m fine with undefined edges—unravel in an instant.
Because I couldn’t choose.
Because I couldn’t commit.
Space.
The word still echoes in my chest. Still hurts.
“Um…can you take me to Riley’s art studio, please?” My voice cracks around the edges.
“Not a problem.” He reaches for my duffel bag before I can answer. “I’ll grab this.”
I nod and follow him out. I’m grateful Luca doesn’t push. His quiet presence is grounding.
By some miracle, traffic behaves, and we arrive at Riley’s studio faster than expected.
I take the stairs two at a time.
I knock. Wait.
Nothing.
Euro dance music thumps behind the door.
I knock again. Still nothing.
I clasp the metal handle and slide the door open.
The studio smells like paint. Afternoon light spills in through the windows, bathing everything in gold. Riley emerges from behind a rack, holding a giant bowl filled to the brim with balloons.
She spots me and freezes. Her eyes widen as she reaches for her phone and turns the music down.
“Guess you guys didn’t elope?”
That couldn’t be further from the truth.
Space.
“Nope.” I shrug.
She offers me one of those polite I’m sorry smiles, and it nearly undoes me.
Riley sets the bowl on the table, then crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into a soul-crushing hug.
“I’m here if you want to talk,” she murmurs. “And it’s okay if you’re not ready to.”
A tear slips down my cheek.
“Thanks, babe,” I sniff.
“I got you.” She pulls back, holding me at arm’s length.
“What’s this?” I ask, nodding toward the bowl.
She sighs. “Thought I’d try something different.”
She grabs a balloon and hurls it at a sheet pinned to the wall.
I shriek as it pops—blue paint explodes across the white canvas.
Riley giggles, grabs two more balloons, and throws again.
Splat.
Green this time.
She laughs, wild and unrestrained, and my own laughter punches out of me in startled bursts. The tightness in my chest eases—just a little.
“Your turn.” She presses a yellow balloon into my hand.
“I don’t want to ruin your piece.”
Like I ruin everything else, the thought claws its way in.
“You won’t,” she says gently. “Pour all the crap you’re feeling into it. Then let it go.”
I nod and step forward, filling the balloon with everything.
Alex.
Madison.
The media.
Broderick.
The pressure.
The expectations.
The disappointment.
Me.
I throw it with everything I have. It bursts red paint against the canvas, and for a moment—just one—it feels good.
But a balloon won’t fix me.
Riley hands me another. We throw in silence at first, then slowly loosen up until girlish giggles and screams fill the studio. Then, like a lunatic, she rushes the canvas and starts smearing paint across it with her bare hands.
She grabs mine, dragging me with her.
Eventually, we end up on the floor, staring at the ceiling, bodies splattered with paint, stomachs aching from laughter.
“This is different from your usual medium,” I say.
“I know.” She sighs. “I’m stuck.”
I turn my head toward her. “Stuck, how? Those pieces for Andrew’s aunt and mom were incredible.”
“That part’s been good. I’ve never had this much money in my life.” She hesitates. “Sorry, I don’t want to pile on you.”
“Stop that right now.” I roll onto my side. “You pile as much shit on me as you want. That’s your right as my best friend.”
She shakes her head, eyes still fixed on the ceiling.
“Riley Fisher, don’t make me tickle-torture it out of you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I absolutely would.” I wiggle my fingers threateningly.
“Okay, okay!” she groans. “Something’s missing.”
I sit up. Her eyes are closed tight.
“Oh?”
“I thought it would get better after the digital prints.”
“What digital prints?”
She sits up too.
“I bought a tablet. Started experimenting. Listed some designs online.” She exhales. “A fabric house in Paris bought the rights to one of them.”
“Riley—that’s amazing.”
She shrugs, defeated. “I know. But I still feel…I don’t know. It’s lame.”
“Tell me,” I say. “No judgment. Ever.”
Her voice cracks. “While you were on tour and Philippa was on her honeymoon, I was so lonely. I missed you both so much. Now Philippa’s having a baby, you’re doing the pop star thing—making famous friends—and I’m stuck being Perry’s gallery bitch. I feel like I’m being left behind.”
“Oh, babe.” My chest tightens. “I’m so sorry you feel this way.”
“And it’s stupid because I hated Jervis Bay. I couldn’t wait to leave.” She laughs weakly. “But I miss it. And New York doesn’t feel like home when you’re not around.”
A tear slips from her eye, and my own dam threatens to burst.
“I get that,” I say quietly. “Your feelings are so valid.”
“It’s dumb,” she mutters.
“It’s not.” I grab her hands. “I’m sorry you felt left behind. I don’t think I’ve been a very good friend. I’ve been so busy that I haven’t prioritized us, and I’m really sorry.”
“I appreciate that, babe—more than you know.”
“If I could pack you up in my suitcase, I would.”
“If only I were as small as you, pipsqueak.”
We both laugh.
But the thought lingers. With our schedules this hectic, there has to be a way to make Riley feel more included. She’s my best friend. My rock. I refuse to let her feel this way.
What if—
“Do you want to come to the Grammys with me?” I blurt.
“What?”
“As my plus one. We can go to L.A. together—soak up some sun, rub shoulders with celebrities.”
Her eyes widen. “Can you even do that? I mean…that would be amazing.”
“I’ll make it one of my diva celebrity demands,” I joke. “I am a Grammy nominee, after all.” I fan myself dramatically.
Riley snorts.
“There’s no way Perry would let me go.” She shrugs, deflated.
The look on her face actually hurts. I’m not used to seeing her like this.
“Do you think Perry’s butthole clenches every time he yells at you?” I ask.
Her lips press together as she tries to hold it in—then a manic cackle breaks loose, and we’re both laughing so hard we can barely breathe.
There she is. My Riley.
“He’s probably got a stick shoved so far up it, it’s permanently left open,” she says between gasps.
“Fuck Perry!” I wheeze, my sides aching.
“I can’t. He’s gay,” she deadpans.
This time, I snort.
“You won’t know unless you ask,” I say once I catch my breath. “And worst case? Take unpaid leave. I’ll spot you.”
“Babe, I don’t want your money. I’ve got a decent amount tucked away. Even if the gallery job falls through, one of Madame Sinclair’s friends asked for a piece, so word’s getting out.”
“See?” I grin. “Perry needs you more than you need him.”
“Alright,” she says, smirking. “Let’s just hope our date goes better than your not-date with Brody.”
I sigh.
“Sheesh. That bad?” she asks. “Want to talk about it?”
“There’s not much to say. He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said no. I ruined his birthday. Now he wants space.”
“Aww, babe.” Her brows knit together. “You turned him down? I thought things were going really well.”
“They were.”
“Then why’d you say no?”
I look at her.
She rolls her eyes.
“I know,” I mutter. “I’m dumb.”
“You’re not,” she says instantly.
She hesitates, then adds quietly, “I don’t really know what it’s like—I’ve never been in love. Not like that.”
There’s a sadness in her voice that makes my chest ache. I know why she’s never let herself fall. Years of parents choosing addiction over their kids. Of learning it hurts less to expect nothing. She’s built armor out of situationships, convincing herself it’s safer not to want.
And in some ways I can relate.
“So,” she says softly, “you really won’t give it a try with Broderick?”
“He’s so good, Riley. Like…perfect.” I swallow. “And it doesn’t feel right to start something real with him when my whole heart isn’t in it.”
She gives me a look.
“Hey—you said no judgment.”
“Even after all this time,” she says gently, “it’s still him?”
Alex.
I nod.
“But what about Madison?”
“He says they’re not together.” I exhale, the weight of it settling in my chest.
“So, what do you want to do?”
It’s the million-dollar question.
How do you move forward when your heart refuses to let go—when it insists on waiting for something you’re not even sure will ever come?