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XIII SUNSHINE STATE OF MIND (ELLE)

XIII

SUNSHINE STATE OF MIND

(ELLE)

You know that meme with the stuffed monkey in the light-green shirt?

You know, the one people trot out when someone says or does something that deserves serious side-eye. And the monkey is just looking at the person, then away, like, "I'm gonna mind my business, but yikes."

That's how I felt, like everyone was looking at me, when I showed up at the office this morning—the morning after that night.

That night.

I felt like that was how Rick looked at me when he took me home. I'm sure he came because August called him.

August, who clearly didn't want to talk to me or even see me. Despite spending God only knows how long watching me while I stood in the morning light, trying to pull my head together.

If I had any common sense, I'd quit this whole thing.

Crossing that red line with August was an epic mistake. Whatever silly infatuation I'd gotten into, August is so unreachable that he'll just call that one quick crashing torrent of desire and wild sex a momentary lapse in judgment.

Maybe it was for both of us.

But what sucks the most is that we'd just started becoming actual friends, trusting each other with personal secrets.

That's ruined now.

So hey. It would be really easy to let this bleed into our publicly advertised breakup moment, right? It'll just happen sooner than planned.

That's what I told myself on the drive home.

It's what I told myself when I asked Gran to go back to bed, lied that everything was fine, and said that I'd see her at breakfast.

It's what I told myself through a cold shower, curling up in bed to lick my wounds and cry a little more and fight off another creeping migraine.

How could I have been so wrong about him?

I thought August was a good man who just didn't see the goodness in himself.

That thought falls out of my head when my alarm goes off, the one that tells me it's time to get up and get dressed and go spend the day worshipping my childhood idol, trying to learn everything I can from her.

That alarm is the reminder I need.

I'm not just doing this for August.

I'm doing it for Clara Marshall, too, and I can't bear the thought of abandoning her.

No, maybe I can't salvage her lost love for Inky the Penguin. Maybe I can't convince her to keep plugging away, or to weather the court fight either.

But that doesn't mean I won't try.

A story about the night the Titanic sank comes to mind. We mostly hear about the people who died on that ship.

The tragedy, the horror.

Kate Winslet telling Leonardo DiCaprio to draw her like one of his French girls.

What we don't hear about is the heart-wrenching story of bravery behind the ship that picked up the survivors, the Carpathia.

The Carpathia was fifty-eight miles away when it got a distress signal. Too far to help. Too far to get there in time to save people as the massive ship sank, broke apart, and doomed over a thousand people to their icy graves.

But over seven hundred people lived.

All thanks to the Carpathia's captain, Arthur Rostron, who saw that impossible chance to reach the Titanic in time. He thought he couldn't do it.

He did anyway.

Everyone on board stepped up to help, prepping the ship to receive survivors while Captain Rostron shut off everything to divert power to the steam engines. Hot water, central heating. All of it. The engineers, stokers, and firemen pushed the engines beyond their capacity.

For hours, the RMS Carpathia surged through the night, through icebergs and fear and desperation.

They made it to the site of the Titanic's sinking in just over three hours.

How, no one is honestly even sure. Even with their superhuman efforts, what they did shouldn't have been physically possible.

The first time I read the post summarizing it on Tumblr, I cried like a baby because it felt like it could only have been the sheer need to save those people that moved the Carpathia so fast, pushed by the hopes of everyone on board. We may never know how they did it.

But we know that far more people would have died that night if Captain Rostron hadn't decided he couldn't just let the survivors go.

I'm not Captain Rostron. Maybe it's arrogant of me to even think I could push past impossible odds to succeed.

But if there's even the tiniest chance to be the Carpathia to Clara's Titanic ...

I have to try, don't I?

And August and I, well, we don't have to see each other for that.

That's what I tell myself, anyway, when I walk into the office and feel everyone staring at me.

They're not. I know they're not.

August may have been a ginormous dick last night, but he wouldn't humiliate me by telling everyone what happened. He wouldn't even breathe a word.

But I step off the elevator just as he steps out of his office, deep in conversation with Deb and awake far earlier than he has any right to be, considering his sleeping habits.

I freeze.

That sick hurt churns in my gut again, even though I told myself to ignore it and treat it just like a one-night stand between strangers.

He stops, absently glancing up and going stiff. His eyes widen briefly.

Right before his face shutters again and he looks down swiftly, focusing on the stack of pages held between him and Deb.

It hurts.

I knew it would happen, but the reality is still heart shredding, digging its claws just under my ribs.

Deb looks between us in confusion, with her brows tight. The resemblance between brother and sister is suddenly very sharp—I can see the thundercloud brewing and almost hear her demanding to know what August did, and why he's ignoring me in front of the staff, while I'm standing here blank and miserable and paralyzed.

I don't give her a chance.

I force the same smile I always do.

I wave and cheerfully call, "Hey, Deb! I just wanted to let you know I'll be down with Clara today."

Then I turn and walk back into the elevator, frantically pushing the down button to cut off the sight of August lifting his head and watching me with the most haunted look on his face.

I nearly race to Clara's little studio cottage, where I find her pouring tea when I burst in. She gasps softly, almost spilling it before she catches herself and tips the delicate porcelain pot upright, then switches over to pouring into the second cup.

"Elle?" she whispers. Her soft southern lilt is automatically comforting. "What's happened, dear?"

"Bee," I deflect, taking a shaky breath. "Guess spring's coming after all. It chased me all the way here."

What?

You think I'm going to tell her I fucked your nephew last night, and he threw a shirt at me and kicked me out, and now every time I look at him I want to cry because I think I might be in love with who I thought he was?

Nah, I think I'll keep that bit to myself.

Instead, I ask her to show me how to draw Inky again, hoping that teaching me might rekindle her love. Hoping that the joy of drawing her most beloved creation will ignite something fresh in her.

It's a strange day, honestly.

Heartbreak weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach, but also elation at getting to watch Clara trace those familiar round shapes and flippers with so much precision and—dare I say it?—fondness. She shows me all the base shapes she uses, watches me sketch them myself, offers gentle corrections, and then draws for me again.

Pure bliss.

It's amazing, learning from a total legend, fulfilling in ways I never thought it would be.

It's just not enough to stop me from feeling sad.

Every day becomes like this. I make myself come in to work to keep up the facade.

Grandma watches me go to the door with a worried look that says she knows something is wrong but she'll let me come to her when I'm ready. I try to avoid August at work, but he keeps coming in early like he's a pod person or something. We keep bumping into each other in the parking lot, in the lobby, the little espresso bar downstairs.

It's always awkward.

Frozen moments.

Haunted looks.

A few times, he parts his lips and then just stops and turns away.

I've come so close to texting him and demanding that he just stop holding back and say whatever he's going to say.

But I don't think I'm ready to smile through that hurt just yet.

By Friday, though?

I am absolutely sick of it.

So we're going to hash this out, make a decision, and figure out just how long we're going to keep this farce up so we're not dancing around each other for weeks at a time.

I pack a basket with food and some comfy blankets and tuck it in the back seat of my grandmother's cute little light-green Audi. I've been stealing it for the commute every day, since it's pretty much a given that August isn't picking me up anymore, and I won't put Rick out picking me up.

Then I drive to the office.

I march—well, glide, I guess, in the elevator—upstairs, then walk to his office door.

I knock firmly and walk in without waiting for permission.

August glances up, his mouth opening sharply—only to shutter over again. He gives me another mournful puppy dog look that makes me seethe before he looks away, staring glassily at the wall.

I'm almost mad that he looks so good when he's being broody.

That little curl of hair over his wrinkled brow, his full lips just slightly parted and pensive.

And of course his suit—steel grey today, with a black tie and a dark-grey shirt—looks impeccable on him, framing the perfect lines of his well-built body.

He's not allowed to be this hot when I'm pissed at him.

"Miss Lark." His tone is empty when he finally speaks. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Oh, fuck off," I throw back. Not exactly how I wanted to start this, but my temper's just as explosive as the rest of me. I stalk across the room, my heels clicking, and steal his hand from his laptop keyboard, tugging as hard as I can. "And come with me."

My tugging isn't even enough to make his desk chair swivel. But August flinches and pulls back on his hand.

"Miss Lark, I have to work—"

"Nope! You have to stop being a coward first." I yank on him again. "You're coming now. I'm not giving up, even if you pick me up and chuck me out of here."

This time I manage to pull him off balance, more by sheer luck than anything.

He slides forward in his seat and rises to his feet to get his bearings in a flex of his muscular thighs against his slacks. It gives me a little more leverage to brace my heels and really pull as I turn to drag him toward the door.

"Miss Lark!" he protests. "Where are you—"

"Stop calling me Miss Lark, and I'm taking you to eat a picnic." I whirl back to face him, letting go of his hand and bracing my own on my hips. "Look, you can sit here and sulk, or you can come eat with me. Somehow, I don't think you want to sulk that badly."

August gives me an odd look, but his gaze flits away again, avoiding eye contact. He gives me a weary sigh and reaches up to brush that wild lock of hair back, but it just falls over again, dangling in front of one glassy blue eye.

"If I agree to this, will you let me finish my damned work?"

"Sure," I say, suddenly feeling sour. "You can do whatever you want."

His lips purse. It's like the old August I met on the plane all over again.

"Whatever."

Yep.

I could kick him right now.

This has been building up for a solid week, but even I wasn't expecting that I'd end up bullying him into coming with me.

It feels so awkward as I compose myself so I don't look like a tiny red ragey monster, then turn to lead him out of his office. It's so weird, when before we'd been leaning on each other in front of the staff, walking arm in arm or hand in hand, but now I'm leading, with him trailing behind.

As I pass one of the sales guys at his workstation, I catch a little whisper I probably wasn't supposed to hear.

"Somebody's gone and pissed off the little missus ..."

"Can you blame her?" the woman next to him whispers back. "Marshall's a cold fish."

I flush with embarrassment.

I hate that even after the way he's treated me, the instinct rises up to jump to his defense.

But I pretend not to hear their shit-talk.

The ride down the elevator is painful, both of us on opposite ends and staring up at the numbers. Getting in the Audi is worse. It's small and cramped, and August has to adjust his seat to slide it all the way back so he's not eating his knees with every speed bump.

As I pull out onto the street, I try to smile for my own sake—but it feels like it's stitched on my face in rigid seams. The silence could choke a rattler, as Gran would say.

Good thing we're not going far.

It's midmorning, and there's less traffic as we head to Alki Beach.

I park and reach into the back to snag the picnic basket. I try to pretend I'm alone instead of with a stiff wooden blockhead shadowing me as I march onto the sand in pumps that do not like sinking into the loosely shifting granules with every forceful step.

Look, I didn't think parts of this through, okay?

But I've started this, so I'll finish it.

I find a good spot where we can see the waves and the sea lions playing in the tide—but not too close that we might get chased off by one of the more aggressive beasties.

Determined, I set the basket down, rip the blanket off the top, and spread it on the sand before plunking down with the basket at my hip.

Honestly, it's a barrier. So we can keep a little space from each other.

August stands at the edge of the blanket, looking down at it skeptically.

I point at the free space.

"Sit," I command. "Eat."

With another long sigh, August steps on the blanket and sinks down slowly to sit cross-legged. He keeps his eyes on his hands as he pulls off his polished dress shoes and shakes sand out over the side of the blanket.

"We're here. You want to explain what the hell's going on?"

I mutter under my breath, then dig out one of the wrapped sandwiches inside and thrust it at him. "We're going to sit and eat lunch. That's all. Capisce?"

He doesn't say anything or take the sandwich.

He just sets his shoes down on the blanket, his long feet angular inside black dress socks, and looks at me strangely.

Eep.

I can't do this if he's just going to stare at me like I've got two heads, and not even let me use the pretense of eating to work my way up to what I want to say.

My hand on the sandwich trembles, and my outstretched arm starts to dip a bit.

Just take it,I plead silently, making myself watch him. Take it so we can pretend everything is fine for a few seconds. Just eat and relax and take the olive branch, call a truce.

But all he does is look at me.

Until he says, "I'm sorry."

I blink.

It's so abrupt my hand drops, the sandwich wrap crinkling as it lands on the blanket.

"Huh?" I don't understand.

This time, August's sigh is more patient. He's still giving me that hangdog look, but at least he's looking at me.

"I said I'm fucking sorry," he repeats. "We did something without thinking. And then, instead of talking to you about it, I shut you out and left you flapping in the breeze for days." There's a hint of scorn and disgust in his voice, and I think it's directed at himself. "I shouldn't have treated you that way."

My mouth opens and shuts.

My heart does that weird compacting thing again, but I don't know if it's relief or fresh hurt coming up as I remember that night, or—

"Why did you?" I ask.

"Because I'm an idiot, Elle. I panicked," August retorts bluntly. "When I don't know what to do, I shut people out."

"Asshole move," I quip.

"Yes, I'm aware. I've been trying to figure out how to address it all week."

I blink at him again.

Then I throw the sandwich at him. "Not by ignoring me, dude!"

"Hey!" August's arms come up. The sandwich bounces off them and lands next to the basket. "I deserved that, but why waste good food?"

"Asshole," I repeat. "Stupid, awkward asshole."

"Yeah," he grunts, hanging his head. "The kids would say, ‘I never figured out how to people.'"

"I've kinda figured that out by now," I huff, folding my arms over my chest and looking away. "Asshole."

"You don't have to forgive me, Elle. That's not what I'm asking for."

I shrug one shoulder, turning my nose up. "It's not like we're really dating. You can't exactly break my heart."

I'm such a bad liar.

"I suppose that's good news," he says, sounding dejected.

God, I really wasn't far off the mark when I compared him to an angry outcast boy.

Grown-ass man can handle global billion-dollar business matters but can't handle talking about his emotions.

... but I guess I'm not being much better, huffing and puffing at him, all up in my wounded feels. He did apologize before I had to ask for an apology. That's more than most men give.

I try to relent a little.

"August?" Exhaling, I glance back at him.

"Yeah?" There's the puppy dog again. Head coming up, ears practically pricking. Never would have imagined this the first time I met him.

Dammit. I can't stay mad at this absolute grumpy goober of a man.

But I will not let him make my heart flutter.

I won't.

"We can be friends, you know," I say. Maybe that will be the olive branch that smooths this out so we can go back to pretending. And so I can forget how he felt inside me, practically hollowing me out and making me burn in ways I felt the next day. "We can talk about things without making something formal about it. It's okay to just talk to me about what you're thinking. And ..." I swallow. Yeah, I'm a bit nervous. "And we can talk about what we did."

August tilts his head, considering it, before he says, "I appreciate that. More than I can tell you." There's a way he talks when I know he's sincere, bringing that panther purr back to his voice. "I do like you, Elle. I respect you."

Ugh, I said no fluttering.

Make my heart stop.

I look away from him again. My face burns.

I don't want him to see me blushing when I don't want to stop being mad at him just yet.

"I don't know that I've done anything to earn your respect," I say.

"Then you aren't aware of your own admirable qualities," he points out, blunt as ever.

See? Tactless flipping goober.

"Flattery won't make me forgive you," I say loftily. Mostly to the sea lions, because I'm still not looking at August. "But if my friend wants to flatter me, I won't complain."

Yeah.

Because friends totally attack each other like animals in heat.

Stop thinking about it, or you're just going to want it again.

Too late.

My thighs are already tense, my insides clenching.

Am I ready to let that whole thing go just because he makes me so horny?

A soft snort erupts at my side. "Now you're just fishing."

"A little." I peek back at him and pinch my fingers together.

I expect him to roll his eyes. Instead, he regards me with sincerity.

"Elle. Are you all right?"

I flinch. That peek turns into closing my eyes, then turning my face away again. "Why wouldn't I be?" I throw it out as casually as a wedding crasher, smiling.

"You always smile," August says softly. "You don't always mean it."

Yikes.

When he throws one down, it's a heavy hitter.

My smile fades, and my stomach sinks.

I'd started to open my eyes, but now I keep them closed.

"I know," I say softly. "But I keep smiling until I do. Mean it, that is. Eventually it gets easier, and then it becomes real."

His voice is a little closer when he speaks.

A little heavier.

A little warmer.

"If we're friends, you don't have to do that," he points out. "You can talk to me too. You can tell me if I hurt you."

You have no idea how much.

I have to screw my lids together, or my eyes are going to start stinging. The punch from that night is a bruise that's still tender.

I draw a shaky breath, force my eyes open, and make myself look at him. He's shifted to lean on his hand—and he leans closer to me across the basket, watching me so intently I almost melt into the beach.

"Being rejected by someone after having sex like that would hurt anyone, August." I force myself to be honest, but here I am, deflecting the same way I smile and trying to distance myself from the bad feelings. "I know it's not about me. It's not personal. You'd have done that with anyone."

I don't know if I want him to deny it.

I don't know if I want him to say it's personal, because that would mean there's something about me that's wrong—or maybe there isn't, and that's what it was about.

I don't know.

I don't want my heart lodged in my throat while he taps his knuckles against his lips, thinking hard.

"It was still unforgivably cruel. I'm still sorry. You deserved more respect then, not later. Also, you didn't need to force me to say what I've been wanting to say all this time. My piss-poor communication shouldn't cost your feelings. You deserve better than my bullshit, Elle."

This time my smile is small but genuine.

Sometimes August's honesty hurts.

But sometimes it's the balm I need, especially when I know he means every word.

"I forgive you anyway," I say, pulling my legs up to wrap my arms around my knees and watching the waves. The sun shines so brightly along the shore, turning the water silver, with the scent so sharp and cool. "Thank you, though."

"You shouldn't be thanking me. I fucked with your head."

"But you said something important. Maybe I had to drag you out here and make you face me to hear it, but you didn't make me bring it up. Most men would. They know they were assholes, but they'll ignore it and hope you won't say anything because if you do, you're the one who looks like she's starting fights just to be a shrill bitch. And suddenly you feel bad for being upset and end up letting it go. All because he's looking at you in that special way that makes you feel like you're the problem."

Oops.

I hadn't meant to say all that. It leaves my throat tight.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting him to say in response, but I definitely don't anticipate the tanned hand slipping across my vision to touch the back of my wrist.

No fire, no sparks this time.

Just companionship, one caring human being to another.

"Sounds like you've known some shitty men," August whispers as his hand withdraws.

"Yeah. I guess I didn't realize just how shitty until now."

"Anyone specific?"

"No, not really." I tuck a lock of hair behind my ear, stealing it back before the wind throws it across my cheek. "Just the usual parade of high school boys, college boyfriends, postcollege dudes who date like they're still in college ..." I lace my hands together over my calves, bare in a bright blue-and-white checker-print dress with long sleeves, a tight bodice, and a ruffled A-line flare. "They all kind of blur together after a while." I realize how that sounds and clear my throat, darting him a look. "Not that I've dated like fifty guys or anything. It's only been about ... five? Some of them I wouldn't even call boyfriends. Just bad first dates."

August just watches me now with that gentleness back in his eyes, that warmth—and a hint of amusement. When I realize he's been watching me that way the whole time, I recoil and look away, huffing.

"Elle," he says—soft but pointed.

"Stop looking at me."

"Elle."

"What?" I slide a look his way.

August's brows arch. "You don't have to apologize for the life you've lived. Those mistakes brought you here, didn't they?"

Here, with him.

It hits me what he's saying.

In his life, no matter how messy and confusing that may be.

When I look at the water again, my lips curl and don't stop.

"Yeah. I guess they did."

"There you are," he says appreciatively. "Now you're smiling."

And blushing. And failing horribly at keeping my heart intact.

I laugh quietly. "You're kind of sweet sometimes, Auggie."

Desired effect: achieved.

Now he's scowling, and I've got the upper hand.

"Never say that shit again," he growls.

I grin. "Sweet. Sweet. Mr. Adorable Gruffykins."

August throws me a flat, disgusted stare completely undercut by the breeze playfully tossing that one loose lock against his brow. "Are you having a heat stroke? Those are not English words."

"Very funny, Gruffykins."

"Stop," he snarls.

"Why, Gruffyki—oop!"

That noise?

That was me jerking back as the sandwich on the blanket bonks me in the nose.

He threw it back at me!

I narrow my eyes, smirking, and dive for the basket.

I come right up with the pot of chocolate fondue.

"You wanna have a food fight?" I challenge, pulling the lid off. "'Cause I can throw down."

August blanches. "Do you have any idea how much this suit cost?"

"Do I care?" I dip my finger in the fondue pot, coating it in sticky chocolate.

I stretch my dripping finger toward him. His eyes widen in sheer horror, and he tumbles back on his hands.

"Elle, what are you—Elle. No. No. Bad kitten. Bunny. Whatever you are, don't you fucking dare! I have meetings today and no time to change!"

"Aw, that's just begging me to do it," I tease, darting toward him.

He throws his hands up. "Oh God—"

I stop.

Just a micron short of touching his face.

Then I dab a tiny dollop of chocolate on the tip of his nose before pulling back with a laugh. "Boop."

August blinks and lowers his arms, setting me off in peals of laughter.

Glowering, he swipes the chocolate off his nose with one finger, then licks it.

"You are impossible."

"I know, but the look on your face—oh no."

August dips into the basket and comes up with an entire Tupperware container of coleslaw. He less smiles and more bares his teeth in warning as he eyes me.

"I know exactly how much that dress cost, and I'm not afraid to ruin it."

Oh, I am not losing this playground fight.

I lift my chin and square my shoulders, making myself a target. "Dare you. In public. Heck, let's make it fun. Chase me around. I dare you to chase me around with a plastic bin of shredded cabbage in runny mayo. Triple-dog dare you."

That gets me multiple blinks. I already know I've won.

August just laughs.

Any attempt to stop my heart from fluttering away dies as it beats so hard the velvety sound rolls through me.

"Another day." August sets the coleslaw down on the blanket and reaches into the basket to lift out the plates and utensils. "We should cut the schoolyard shit, eat, and get back to the office. Being the temporary CEO only gives me so many luxuries, and being the creative assistant gives you even fewer."

I giggle and accept the plate he offers before stealing the sandwich we've been using to score points for my plate. I dig out a second, less battered sandwich and offer it to him.

"If a black mark shows up in my employee file, I'm blaming you."

August actually looks regretful. "I really have tangled you up in my affairs pretty terribly, haven't I? Fiancée. Employee. Coconspirator. Aunt wrangler."

"I don't mind. Do you?" I tilt my head, offering him a chilled can of sparkling water.

His fingers brush mine warmly, lingering as he takes the can and leans back to look out over the water, his lips still curled up at the corners.

"No. Truth be told, woman, I don't mind it at all."

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