Chapter 19

What do you mean this isn't working anymore?

Rory shookher head as she typed back, exasperated. When she turned her phone on the day after Christmas, she still had no response from him. It took Jay two more days to finally say something.

As you said, we're just having fun. But I don't think it's fun anymore.

We could make it fun, you know…

She choked out another laugh.

I've decided I'm saving that for someone I'm actually dating.

Are you trying to force me into a relationship?

No, I'm giving you an out.

Rory watched the gray bubbles as Jay typed, then erased, then kept typing. She didn't wait for him to respond and instead kept going.

You have clearly been busy with stuff at school, and I'm happy for you. But I need something more. I'm not a hookup kind of girl. I don't deserve to come in second place.

It took Jay several minutes to respond.

Who's the guy?

She scoffed, then turned off her phone again. Yes.It was also partly about him. But after mulling over their conversation throughout winter break, she realized it was so much more than that. For a while, Rory had felt like Jay was choosing her, that she was his baby and all of that. But the last few weeks since he'd showed up on her doorstep, he'd become distant, and when he was around her, all he wanted was to get physical. Something else was going on, and she didn't feel like accepting crumbs.

Even if what she wanted was never going to be available to her. Not if Tyler and Zoe were going to keep up this whole fake dating thing.

So, she did the only thing she could fathom handling at the moment—her work for the yearbook. Thankfully there was still so much to do, and now that she was taking classes so she could execute her designs on the computer instead of waiting for someone else to do it, she was able to bury herself in her tasks.

She didn't see much of Tyler after Christmas—he was busy with rehab every day after school, trying to get his knee back into playing shape—but that didn't stop him from trying to reach out to her. She wanted to respond, but every time she went to type something back, her heart hurt thinking about the day he would finally be okay to play again. It meant him moving to college and leaving her behind. So she ignored his attempts, keeping her head down and doing nothing but work, work, work.

January came and went. February shaped up to be a blustery, cold bitch, and not just because of the weather. Valentine's Day at Haverport High was always next level, the halls covered in pink and purple hearts. Secret admirers sent candy grams to their lovers—a cruel joke of a fundraiser hosted by the drama club. Rory couldn't help but notice the obnoxious number of candy grams Zoe received throughout the day. Despite her best attempts at trying to avoid him, she couldn't stop her mind from wondering why he was going so overboard with this fake relationship when he'd been staring at her lips on Christmas, looking like he wanted them on his?

None of it made sense. So she stayed glued to her computer screen, her mind focused on page spreads and not on her heartbreak.

When the ice on the ground finally started to thaw and tiny buds on trees began to bloom, the yearbook was officially designed. Every spread was ready for real words to occupy the placeholder text, for photographs to replace stock images, and for final submissions of senior photos and tribute pages to be placed in the back—pages paid for by parents who wanted to embarrass their child with baby pictures for everyone to keep for the rest of their lives.

Rory sat with her legs propped up on the desk, ankles crossed, and sipped on a Dr. Pepper as Penelope scrolled through each spread, giving Vanessa notes for any changes she deemed necessary. Thankfully, there weren't many.

Penelope leaned back in her chair after scrolling to the last page of the yearbook, clicking her pen. "This is really good, guys. The designs are so out there and fun. I think people are going to be shocked."

"Because it's not boring and minimalistic?" Rory bantered.

"Let's go with classy," Penelope said in a valiant effort to try and defend previous book designs. "But yeah…exactly."

"It was all Rory," Vanessa said, beaming.

"Shut your mouth," Rory said, nudging Vanessa. "You made all of those final calls. None of this would have been possible without you."

Vanessa winked. "We make a good team."

"Now I guess it's my turn to pull some late nights." Penelope sighed. "We've got some editors working on the text that I'll need to copy edit, and then approve all of the photography. Gina, what's our status on the senior submissions?"

Gina poked her head out from behind her computer. "I've got sixty-five percent of senior headshots submitted, and we still need to fill ten tribute pages."

"Ten?" Penelope squeaked. "Wasn't the deadline for those two weeks ago?"

Gina nodded somberly. Penelope groaned.

"What if we offered parents to purchase quarter pages?" Rory asked.

"For a quarter of the price?" Penelope asked.

Rory nodded. "I'm going to be honest with you, the prices to purchase a page or even a half page in the yearbook is pretty steep. My mom looked at it and actually laughed."

"Oh," Penelope said, her face glazed over as she thought it through.

"But," Rory continued, "if we offered a way for parents to purchase a smaller spot that's a little more affordable, we'd fill those pages quicker."

Vanessa shrugged. "Worth a shot, and I do like the idea of making things more affordable."

Penelope nodded. Case closed. "Done. Gina, will you draft an email to go out to the senior parents and send it to me? I'll give it a quick look over and get it out tonight."

"On it, boss!"

Penelope turned to Rory. "You know, Michaels, you're probably the most unexpected person to be on this team, and yet you've turned out to be the most vital."

She smiled at that. Even if the words were coming from someone like Penelope, it was still satisfying. It made her feel like she was actually needed. It made her feel less alone.

Her phone jingled in her pocket as the yearbook staff packed up for the night. Rory saw it was Melanie and immediately answered, walking away in search of privacy. "Mel, hi, my god I've missed you."

"I'm sorry," Melanie said on the other line. "It's been…kind of awful lately."

"I can't imagine," Rory whispered, feeling like a horrible human again for not trying to visit Melanie during an even more terrible season of grief. It had been over two weeks since she saw her friend face-to-face. Calvin was probably disappointed in her. "And you should never apologize for this, okay?"

"Okay," Melanie responded. "I do have a very, um, odd request though. Are you free tonight?"

"Yes, of course," Rory said, not even sure if she was, but she didn't care. "What's the plan? Rob a bank? Steal Grampy's blueberry coffee cake recipe?"

Melanie laughed, the lightness of her friend's voice filling her with hope. "While I would love to steal that heavenly recipe, there's something else I'm going to need you for tonight."

"What's going on?"

Melanie let out a heavy, loaded sigh. "Leila has an art exhibit opening tonight at Baybrook. And…apparently it's all about Duncan."

Rory was stunned into silence, processing this information for a moment. Leila was Duncan's girlfriend from last summer. They broke up right before he died, but she could still hear Leila's wails from the funeral ringing in her ears. She shook her head, brushing away the horrid memory. "You…want to go with me? Not your parents? Calvin?"

"No, I just—can't with them. And Calvin has class."

"Lazy," she teased, hoping to get another laugh out of Melanie. She did. "Yes, of course I'll go with you, Mrs. Ass Hat. I'll come pick you up now."

* * *

Rory squeezed Melanie's hand."You sure about this?"

Melanie nodded, looking out at Baybrook School of Fine Arts from where they sat in the parking lot. Even though it was small, the campus was like a work of art in itself—a few ornate marble buildings circled a quad, with a gorgeous three-tiered water fountain at the center. Even the lights were artfully placed around campus, showcasing each building's interesting angles. The gallery banquet hall was lit as students and guests streamed in and out.

Rory stepped out of the car. "Is this all for her?"

"No. She told me it's for her sculpture class, so it features all the students taking it."

"You talked to her?"

Melanie nodded. "She called me last night."

Rory stopped her friend, placing her hands on Melanie's shoulders. "Again, are you sure about this?"

"I'm kind of curious," Melanie whispered. "Aren't you?"

"I mean, obviously," she answered. "I just want what's best for you."

Melanie looped an arm through Rory's. "Just be here with me, okay?"

She nodded, a lump rising in her throat.

She'd become what Melanie needed—starting with a steady arm for her friend to lean on as they walked through the doors of Baybrook. The different sculptures were incredible—some of them welded or carved into figures that were recognizable, like people or animals or plants. Others were a bit more abstract, pieces collected together to represent ideas and concepts, like political divide or famine or heartbreak. Rory picked up a program for the event and flipped through it, scanning the different descriptions for each piece. Every single one of them was inspiring. She could have spent hours in that hall gazing at the sculptures, taking them in.

But she wasn't there for herself, she was there for Melanie, who was leading her toward a section in the back. A charcoal-colored curtain covered the doorway of this exhibit, and unlike other sculptures that had plaques with intricate explanations for each piece, this plaque only had one word.

grief

All written in lowercase letters. Like the artist didn't have the energy to capitalize the title, as if grief had consumed them to their core.

She felt shivers down her spine, afraid of what Melanie was about to experience.

She tightened her grip on Rory's arm. "Don't ask me again. We're doing this."

"Okay," Rory whispered. "I've got you every step of the way."

Melanie peeled back the curtain, the two of them stepping in before being blanketed once again in darkness. But not complete darkness—the room had enough lighting set ingeniously at different points to accentuate the pieces within. The sculptures around the room were black and solid, but with the lights, she could almost picture them as wistful puffs of smoke. Her eyes were glued instantly to the center of the room. A spotlight was fixed on a slim white stand, a beacon of pureness in a room covered in dark. And placed at the center of the stand was a tiny sculpture. A sandcastle.

Melanie cried softly as Rory wrapped her in her arms. The sandcastle was a symbol of hope, a memory of goodness when grief consumed your being. It was like taking her friend's inner core and putting it on display. Rory was nauseated by it. But…she was also impressed.

"Mel?" whispered a soft voice at the curtain.

Rory and Melanie broke away, looking at Leila, who was standing at the curtain. She was wearing a floor-length black dress, her blonde hair wild like the wind, her hazel eyes glistening with tears.

Melanie gave Leila a shy smile. "The sandcastle…"

"He said building them with you was always his favorite part about being in Haverport," Leila said. "I…I hope you're not mad."

"I'm not," Melanie breathed. "It's beautiful, Leila."

Leila nodded her head. "Take all the time you need."

Rory peeked past Leila's head before she closed the curtain, noticing there was a line forming to get into her exhibit. But it seemed Leila was watching guard, not letting anyone else in until Melanie was finished.

Rory gave her friend one more fierce hug. "Calvin was right."

"He always is," Melanie grumbled. "But about what?"

Rory wiped a tear from her cheek. "That you, Melanie, are strong. I would have never been able to do this."

Her friend shrugged, toying with the pink seashell dangling from a chain around her neck. "If I didn't have friends like you, I wouldn't either."

They both cried at that, holding each other close, staring off at the tiny sandcastle. From that moment on, she vowed to be the kind of friend Melanie deserved. Because friendships like this were hard to come by, and she was going to hold on to it with everything she had.

* * *

Rory leftMelanie with Leila so the two could talk about the exhibit, giving her one last chance to make a lap around the banquet hall. She stopped in front of the display titled We Found Love in a Hopeless Place. The sculpture was simply a garbage pail with scraps of bulging out the top and scattered across the floor.

"So where do you think love is if it's just garbage?" said a middle-aged man next to her.

Rory glanced at the guy to make sure he wasn't being a creep, but he kept a respectable distance. Combed gray hair, a trimmed beard, and a tweed jacket. Definitely an academic type.

She scanned the sculpture again. A mix of items were scattered haphazardly—torn-up bags from an online shopping spree, a box that once held a Kindle, sticker wrappers, broken pens and pencils, empty coffee bags, shoe boxes, old phones with cracked screens. It felt like the garbage had a theme.

"Maybe because it's all supposed to represent love that was found," she said without really thinking. "The things we find that bring us joy. The things we love when life feels a little hopeless."

The man smiled at Rory, then held out a hand. "Roger Farrow."

She shook it. "Rory Michaels."

"Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Michaels," Mr. Farrow said. "Come to visit a friend's exhibit tonight?"

She pointed to the charcoal curtain, to where Leila and Melanie still huddled closely. "Leila's exhibit is kind of about my friend."

"Ah yes, grief," Mr. Farrow said, like the concept was familiar. "The students fought over using that room, but Ms. Collins was the right call, I think."

He must be the professor, Rory thought. "It needed that cloak and dagger effect," she admitted. "The sculptures wouldn't have felt the same without the darkness and the placement of the lights."

Mr. Farrow smiled at Rory's again, thoughtfully this time. "Ms. Michaels, are you a college student?"

"High school senior. Not sure if I'm going to college, to be quite honest."

"And why is that?"

She stared at the trash, surprised she was admitting this to a stranger. "Because why waste the money if I don't know what I want to study?"

"But you like art."

She looked up at Mr. Farrow. "Well…yeah, I guess."

"It sounds like you do have something you're interested in."

Why was this man being so…invasive? "No offense, professor, but art school doesn't exactly help you with getting a job in the real world."

"Do you really believe that?"

A little twinkle in his eye danced as he waited for her response. "It's not exactly known for it," she said.

Mr. Farrow reached into the inside of his jacket, pulling out a notebook. It wasn't the kind of notebook she would imagine a professor in a tweed jacket to have on hand, though. Actually, it looked like something she would carry in her own backpack. The cover was an abstract painting with bold colors and gold, glittering letters that read I AM A HOT MESS.

"Five years ago, a talented painter at our school started a canvas series to reflect the crippling anxiety attacks she'd experienced her entire life," Mr. Farrow explained. "One of her tactics to feel settled from her anxiety was to simply write out her unedited thoughts in a notebook. But she complained about how neat the notebooks were—she wanted something as messy as she felt in those moments. And so she decided to combine the two, using her paintings to create her business, Hot Mess Notes. She has dozens of designs and sells hundreds of notebooks every day.

"Is she the next Van Gough? No, but that was never the goal. The goal was not only to reach people through her art, but also offer it in a way that makes sense in the world we live in.

"Now tell me, Ms. Michaels, in what ways have you experienced art in our world? And do you think it is still a necessity?"

Her mind immediately drifted to Happy As a Clam and the exquisite animation she obsessed over. Then to the yearbook, and how the art they'd been working on for months would live on as history for the rest of her classmates' lives.

Mr. Farrow reached into another pocket and pulled out a business card, interrupting her roaming thoughts. "If you decide, Ms. Michaels, that maybe this world does need more artists, I would love to see your work. Give my office a ring and we can set up an appointment."

Rory thanked him, watching him walk off before glancing down at his business card.

He wasn't just a professor. Roger Farrow was the dean of the school.