“Did you just complain about being famous?”
She grinned. “You wouldn’t understand.”
With the back of her hand against her forehead, she walked over to the couch, throwing herself onto a lumpy cushion. “Whoa is—” Her eyes widened. “Whoa.” She leaned forward, half draped over my shoulder, as she inspected my drawing.
“I can’t believe all these years you never told me.”
“Still bitter about that, huh?”
“Very.”
The longer she stared at my work, the more self-conscious I became. I’m sure plenty of people judged mybook covers and called them trashy or similar nonsense. Those projects weren’t personal. The thought of somebody judging my sketches tightened a knot in the pit of my stomach.
“It really is gorgeous, and I don’t mean your model.” She paused. “Well, notjustyour model. Is this where you tear it out and secretly leave it behind?”
“It doesn’t count if you know I’m doing it.”
“Patty has hers hanging in the bakery. It seems Marigold and Peter got one too. Walter and Harvey are treating theirs like a timeshare. And Dorothy? Come on. Why can’t I have it?”
She wouldn’t stop until I tore it out. I’d wake up to text messages if she didn’t get her way. I carefully pulled the page from my sketchbook and handed it to her. For a moment, I spotted the glimmer of appreciation in her eye. No sarcasm, no snide remarks. Amanda understood how the rest of the world saw her. Me? I saw an artist trying to change the world one drawing at a time. We had that in common.
“Thank you,” she said. Of course, she wouldn’t leave it there. “When are you going to show them off? You could host a salon. We’d all get dressed up and drink fancy champagne and discuss the plights of our time.”
“I prefer to operate from the shadows.”
“We could get you some social media. After the interview with Gail, I’m sure people would be interested.” She rambled to herself as she started pacing. Just like with thecalendar, Amanda seized control and wouldn’t let it go unless I shook her.
“I think I prefer doing it for fun.”
She stopped, looking from the drawing to the page she had been inking. Rarely did she grow quiet. I feared I had said something to set her off. She placed my drawing next to hers.
“You know…” She continued glancing from one to the other. “I think you’re right.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
“Don’t make me regret this.” She flagged me to come closer. I got off the couch, my knees cracking as I moved for the first time in hours. Walking closer, she held my arm, resting a head on my shoulder. “There’s something to be said for doing what you love. It shows in the work.”
I’d have to take her word for it. Like always, her comic amazed me. I didn’t understand how one person could have so much talent. Yet, something I said struck a nerve.
“Speaking of…”
Nope. I would not walk into this trap.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Resist. The. Urge.
“It rhymes with mylar.”
“What?” Dammit. One word gave her permission.
“Your one-night stand seems to have turned into a lot of night stands. Do I sense wedding bells in your future? Maybe a small, adorable dog?”
“You know you’re insufferable.”
“And yet you suffer.”
“I don’t know.” I might be able to lie to myself, but she wouldn’t accept it. Lying to Amanda would have required notarized documents, psych evaluations, and an act of Congress. “I like him.”
