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“How did you even know to be here?” I asked as Mom shoved a bucket of clay toward Lauren.
“You told Rowan you were moving out when you used Cal’s bathroom, and she’s finally realized she’s not helping anyone by stressing her back,” Lauren said, grabbing the bucket and a stack of drop clothes.
I’d told my sister to keep me accountable, but I didn’t expect her to call in reinforcements to help me move.
“Thank goodness she’s being sensible,” Mom said, grabbing another box, leaving only my tool chest and portable speaker. “Especially this close to the wedding.”
“Thanks for the help but get back to whatever you need to do. I can get the rest,” I said as I wrapped the last of my tools and placed them in the chest.
After Lauren and Mom took off, I opened the kitchen door, placed my key by the uncovered statue, and left, taking everything but my heart with me.
Chapter thirty-one
Theo
I ducked out ofwork early to stop home before class. The past week and a half had been a torture of my own making. I’d blown up the air mattress in one of the spare bedrooms because, apart from that first night when my adrenaline crashed, I hadn’t been able to sleep in mine. After one sleepless night spent staring at the painting, I switched rooms and restarted my pre-breakfast workouts. Waking up in a comfortable bed with Poppy in my arms had felt so good, I’d moved my routine to later in the day or skipped it all together to join my friends at the gym. But without her, the usual anxiety ate at me until I gave in to planks and pushups. The lonely air mattress was enough to put me in a bad mood, but then I’d gone and begged Aiden to get Poppy back in the studio.
A saner man would have left the house as soon as she arrived, but I found myself moving first from the couch to the kitchen before stretching out on the floor by the studio door. Poppy’s music bled through the wall, but she kept it low enough I could hear her movements when she set up and the clank of toolsin the sink as she cleaned. She was remarkably quiet while she worked. Being a night owl like me, she’d stayed in the studio long past midnight several times. I once fell asleep propped against the kitchen cabinet and woke hours later to a quiet house and a crick in my neck.
Every night after she’d left, I’d entered the studio to see the progress she’d made. The part of me that felt guilty for snooping took a back seat to the ache in my chest. I missed her. And if I couldn’t see her face, the next best thing was her art.
As the days passed, the sculpture began to take the form of two people standing with either two people lying on the ground behind them or their shadows. As she added details, it became clear she and I were the two figures in the middle of the sculpture, locked in an embrace. She was still working on the two figures laying on either side. Perhaps they were meant to be our separate shadows or past selves or something else entirely. Even unfinished, I knew it would be one of her best sculptures. I wanted to scribble her a note and tell her how amazing it looked, but then I’d have to admit to snooping.
After days of listening to her work, I finally felt strong enough to see her face-to-face and invite her back to class. I was relieved she was working again, but I hated that she’d avoided the community center because of me. Not that I could teach her anything. Class just hadn’t felt the same without her. Honestly, nothing had.
As soon as I opened the front door, I knew she wasn’t in the studio. I walked to the back of the house anyway. My heart thudded when I saw the open kitchen door. I flicked on the studio lights and my eyes narrowed in on the statue. Unlike the other times I’d snooped, she’d left it uncovered.
The finished piece filled me with longing. Detailed and evocative, it would have moved anyone with half a heart, but the pain I felt as I walked closer pulled a sound from my throatthat I hadn’t heard myself make since the night Logan died. And like that night, the weight of everything I’d lost, all the hurt I’d brought on myself, crashed against me in waves that left me shaking and sick.
I took a few deep breaths, willing myself not to throw up. This pain couldn’t be the same. Logan lost his life because of me. Poppy was still alive, still sculpting—better than she ever had before.
There was no mistaking the meaning of the piece. Poppy believed we were stronger together than apart, but she’d exaggerated the holes in her life and minimized mine. I had been better with her, but she was better off without me.
Once my stomach settled, I searched for a drop cloth to cover the piece like she usually did, only there wasn’t one nearby. I went to the cabinet where she kept her things but found it empty. I flung open all the doors. My paints and brushes were exactly where I’d left them, but nothing of Poppy’s remained.
I found her key on the table when I tossed one of my old towels over the sculpture. I should be relieved. If the past few days had taught me anything, it was that having her in my space was too painful, too tempting. Even so, I wondered what it meant for her art. Where would she work, if she didn’t work here?
Hoping against all odds she’d be in class, I turned off the studio lights and left. The community center parking lot was filled with cars when I arrived, but Poppy’s hearse was nowhere in sight. With a sigh, I climbed out of my truck and went inside.
“He looks even worse than last week,” Millie said when I entered the classroom.
“What’s tweaked?” Esther bellowed.
“She said Theo looks worse than last week,” Gladys yelled.
“Oh, yes, he does,” Esther said.
“Poppy doesn’t look any better,” Mrs. Adams added.
“Pale as a ghost,” Mr. Twillings added.
“She’s always pale as a ghost,” Mr. Wilson said. “And we’re not talking about her when she isn’t here.”
“And who’s fault is that?” Mr. Fitzwilliam said.
Every pair of eyes in the room glared at me.
“You’ll never find a woman like Poppy again,” Mr. Wilson said.