Page 44 of Play Nice

“What’s in there?” he says, pointing to the sketchbook.

I reach over and pick it up, hand it to him. He flips it open.

“Well, shit. You’re talented, too,” he says. “Hot and talented.”

“They’re just sketches.”

“Get outta here,” he says. “There’s shading.”

“So?”

He turns the page. “All right. This one’s a sketch.”

“Can I see that?” I ask, taking the sketchpad from him.

I’m staring at something that I clearly drew, only I have no memory of drawing it.

It’s just the word “Hello” in bold cursive lettering. It’s my go-to scribble.

“What is it?” Austin asks. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, closing the sketchpad and setting it down on the coffee table. My palms are suddenly sweaty. I want to put the sketchpad somewhere else, somewhere out of view. In another room. In the trash. Set it on fire.

I don’t know why.

“It’s late,” I say, standing.

Austin nods. He gets up, takes the empty beer bottles to the kitchen.

He comes back and kisses me on the lips. “Good night, Clio Barnes.”

“Good night.”

He’s down the stairs, door open, and I wait for him to turn around and say something. He doesn’t, so I do.

“If the lights are on, I’m around.”

He turns, smiling. “I’ll still knock first.”

He closes the door behind him. I lock it from the app on my phone.

I eat two cookies while I check my socials and respond to comments, then get ready for bed.

Instead of city sounds, I put on basic white noise.

When I get into bed, I put the pillow at the bottom, so I’m in the position I was when I woke up this morning, the opposite of how I fell asleep last night. I must have reversed in the night, deciding I was more comfortable this way.

I settle in and pass out instantaneously.

When I wake up the next morning, I’m on the floor.

15

I started painting,” I tell Daphne over elderflower gimlets. She’s in the city for a work thing and got us reservations at an insane restaurant on the Upper West Side where we’re eating for free because she knows the chef.

“Like, you picked it up again? Oils?” she says, studying the menu like she’s going to be tested on it. Her brow is furrowed; she gnaws on her lip.

“The house. I started painting the house. Priming. You have to prime first. I’ve done Mom’s office, the upstairs hall, and the downstairs hall. I’ve done the cutting in in your old room. Not the kitchen yet, because I think it’s going to be a gut job. And I’m doing wallpaper in the bathroom. Look.” I get out my phone to show her the wallpaper I picked, but she shakes her head and both hands, dropping the menu.