“That’s my fave!”

“Duh!”

I gave her a hug. “Thank you. And not just for the pressie.” She looked, as the English say, well chuffed.

Next was a quick trip to the National Gallery. Cat left me alone with my favourite painting—and my thoughts—while she checked out the gift shop.

I sat in front of Sunflowers staring at the different hues of yellow. I loved that there was nothing symmetrical in the painting, including the vase. Everything was a little off kilter, but the overall effect was very beautiful.

Everything in my love life was off kilter too, but I was struggling to see the beauty in that.

I hadn’t made promises to either man—not really—but I had been bitterly disappointed when Josh had referred to me as his “travel buddy” right before we’d said goodbye in Greece. I’d wanted more from him. But that wasn’t fair to Josh, especially considering how things had developed between me and James. Josh had even asked me not to see James.

And James had been an absolute gentleman about Josh when we were in Greece, saying he didn’t want to get in the way if there was something between us. But he hadn’t asked about Josh at all during our week together in London. Was he trusting that I would tell him if there was anything to tell, or did he just assume I’d chosen him over the American boy?

And how could I go to Hawaii with Josh knowing how I felt about James?

And a worse question, how could I not?

I knew there was a reason to stay single.

I focused on the painting again. Van Gogh had started to go mad by the time he’d painted it. Mad. We’d call it depression now or some other treatable mental illness, the poor man. The struggle, his struggle, was right there on the canvas. Yet, he’d found beauty in the details, even living inside a troubled mind. I was a little in love with Vincent.

I felt someone sit down beside me and knew without looking it was Cat. She moved closer and rested her head on my shoulder. “I love you,” she said quietly.

“I love you too.”

I was starting to feel the separation already. It sucked.

“We need to start drinking,” she said after a moment. I could not have agreed more.

*

We were seated at the bar at Bentley’s Oyster Bar (& Grill—don’t forget the “& Grill”), a dozen empty oyster shells in front of us and each of us on our third glass of bubbles. It wasn’t champagne though, because the prosecco was way more affordable.

“I’d like to propose a toast,” said my tipsy sister.

“I’ll drink to that,” I said, also tipsy.

She giggled. Maybe she was more than tipsy. “I haven’t proposed it yet.”

“Oh. Go ahead, then.”

“To Sarah, who is brave and beautiful and is shagging two ridiculously handsome men.”

I clinked my flute against hers. “Amen.” Oops. Maybe I was more than tipsy. “We should order a bottle,” I suggested, helpfully.