XXIII THE SUNNY SIDE OF GLOOM （ELLE）

We've come full circle.

Me, sitting with Lena and Gran at the kitchen table, sipping cups of hot tea and watching the rain come down outside while I nurse my broken heart.

They're here for me the same way they always are.

I'm so glad I have them.

I couldn't handle being alone right now.

Not even after getting out of August's shirt and scrubbing off his scent so it wouldn't make me burst into fiery tears all over again.

There is no "we"!

You aren't a part of this.

You don't need to intrude, inserting yourself into goddamned everything.

My lips quiver.

I pinch them together hard and take another long, burning sip of my tea.

Orange blossom with honey today.

Comfort tea.

She always knows exactly what I need.

I rub my thumb against the warm ceramic cup and look up at my grandmother with a thousand-pound heart.

"Gran? Do ... do you ever resent looking after me?"

Lena rolls her eyes like it's the dumbest question she's ever heard. It probably is, but sometimes I just need to hear it.

Gran reaches over and lays her paper-thin hand over mine gently. "Never, dear. Not once. You've brought so much light into my life. You always will." She squeezes my hand. "Having you here has made my life happier than I can describe."

"So I wasn't an intrusion?"

I know I sound like a needy little girl right now.

And I feel like one too.

"No."She shakes her head firmly. "You were right where you belonged." Her brows crease with concern. "Is that what he called you? An ‘intrusion'?"

Lena bares her teeth. "Oh God, I really am going to cut his balls off."

"Now don't be vulgar, Lena." Gran purses her lips.

"Nope. Not this time. Not listening. Balls go poof!" She slides her finger across her throat. "Shhk!"

Sighing, Gran says, "Well, I can't fault your motives, at least. Do use a sharp knife, if you must be so uncivilized."

"Do I look like an amateur, Grams?" Lena smiles viciously.

I don't know how they do it, but I'm laughing.

It doesn't fix the heartbreak, no; it just makes it tolerable for a few minutes.

"You two are awful," I whisper.

Lena grins at me. "We love you anyway, you dinkus."

"‘Dinkus'? Is that a word?" I laugh—but between one breath and the next I start crying again.

Again.

God, why?

Why do I care so much?

I know August is a hollowed-out grouch with a heart smaller than a peanut. But I also know that when his temper snaps, sometimes he says things he doesn't mean.

Why am I so upset then?

Because he did mean it.

Because you're a loud, annoying, chaotic intrusion, and you think if you just act like you don't care, then the people who find you annoying and obnoxious won't hurt you.

He's struck one of my deepest insecurities, the one that I've never been able to face myself.

All shoved at me by the one man I wanted to like me more than anything.

With a panicked sound, Lena jumps to her feet, her chair scraping. "Hey—hey, okay, we're out of tissues, hold on." She dips into the kitchen and snatches a wad of paper, thrusting it at me. "There we go. Paper towel time."

I take the paper towels and scrub my face.

They're scratchy, but I don't care.

"Sorry, guys—sorry I'm such a mess, I just—"

Lena snorts.

"Stop apologizing, girl." Her voice is harsh, but her touch soothes as she squeezes my shoulder. "That man bought himself a fiancée, and you had to go and be dumb enough to fall in love with him for real."

She says it with such certainty.

And it echoes inside me with an awful clarity, something that should feel wonderful and beautiful, but right now it's chokingly bittersweet.

God help me.

I love August Marshall.

I love his angry, grumpy, heart-thieving butt, when I'm nothing to him but a minuscule fly in his orbit.

"Well, when you put it that way ..." I give Lena a lopsided smile.

"Was the sex worth it, at least?" She plunks back down in her chair.

"Lena!" Gran gasps.

I wrinkle my nose. "I mean, it was good ..."

Gran looks faint, a hand fluttering to her chest. "I cannot know this about my granddaughter. While I know you two impertinent kids are just riling me up, let's change the subject."

My smile is a little more rueful as I wipe the last tears away with the paper towel. "I actually think I'm going to go up and lie down. I'm starting to get a headache behind my eyes. I think I have a date with my meds and the blackout blinds if I want to stave off another attack."

"Of course, dear." Gran reaches over to squeeze my hand again. "I meant to send this one home, anyway." She swats Lena's shoulder lightly. "Go take those muffins to your mother, you vulgar child."

"I just say the things you won't." Lena grins unrepentantly.

"The two of you should take your act on the road." I shake my head, rising with an amused sigh.

"Hey, not a bad idea, huh, Grams?"

"It's a terrible idea. Those comedy clubs smell, and you'd make me tell rather blue jokes."

I love them so much.

And that love gives me just enough energy to trudge upstairs, where I plunk down on my bed and stare for a solid minute.

I feel like my entire life has just fallen apart.

I won't be going to work tomorrow, or seeing August. Or Clara.

Which reminds me of the sketchbook on my nightstand.

I pull it over, slide the pages open, run my fingers over the little Inky doodles.

The new product line to revive the pen pal program. We were planning it all out—stationery, labels, stickers, pen wraps and toppers, erasers and pencils and collectible toys. A young guy in accounting even had a cool pitch for an Inky app.

August promised he'd look into everything.

And that night I'd gone home and curled up and sketched ideas for product designs in a frenzy, too excited to sleep.

But I guess it doesn't matter now.

Whatever we had is toast, and so is the entire brand.

That lump in my throat rises, so large it nearly chokes me. When I was a little girl and I used to feel this rudderless, I'd write Inky a letter, never knowing it wasn't Inky answering at all, but Clara Marshall herself.

I wish I could talk to her.

I wish I could understand.

I wish I could tell her I love her nephew, just so someone knows it, even if it's not August himself.

But now I can't.

Maybe writing will make me feel better, though, just like it used to.

I turn to a blank page in my sketchbook and curl up against the headboard of my bed.

I snag a pen from my nightstand.

Then, with all my gnarled feelings, I begin to write.

Dear Inky. . .