I hadn’t been asked to donate anything. The truth was, it would be embarrassing to offer up a painting that my sister would pity-buy.

“Hey, Sadie! Do you teach painting?” came a voice. It was Emma London.

“I do,” I said. “You interested?”

“Oh, God, no. I mean, I’ve been kicked out of those paint and drink nights, you know? Stick figures is the best I can do.” She smiled. “I was thinking of lessons for a little friend of mine. She’s four and a little wild.”

“Sure. I could do that. I used to teach elementary school art.”

“Cool! Thanks, Sadie. Hey, there’s my guy. The father of your potential student, Miller Finlay. Do you know him?”

Of course I did. Miller owned Finlay Construction, and Noah had done an internship with him in high school. We did the two degrees of separation Stoningham thrived on, and then they wandered off. Nice couple.

Bidding was pretty hot and heavy. Dinner with Lin-Manuel went for sixteen grand. Jeez.

Then I saw Noah. He was carrying a painting.

My painting.

The clouds I’d given him for Valentine’s Day so long ago.

He set it on an easel and stepped back, and my chest felt sliced open.

The auctioneer looked at his notes. “Next up, folks, something that’s not listed in your program. A Sadie Frost original oil painting. Very pretty. Sadie’s the daughter of our first selectman, I believe. She works as a . . . a teacher, is that right? An art teacher! Great. Let’s start the bidding at . . . a hundred dollars? A hundred dollars, can I have a hundred dollars, thank you, sir. A hundred and fifty, fifty, can I see a hundred and fifty, thank you, ma’am, two hundred, two hundred.”

Noah was selling my painting. No. He was giving it away. He was tossing it. He was . . . shit, he was ditching it, because what was that phrase? It didn’t spark joy.

He’d kept it all these years. He’d broken up with his fiancée over it, and now he was essentially throwing it in the junk pile, for a couple of hundred dollars, no less.

I got up to leave, tears blurring my vision. Jesus. Why not just burn down my house or stab me in the throat? At least that would’ve been a little less public.

“Three hundred, three hundred, thank you, can I have four? Four, please?”

“Where are you going?” Mom asked, suddenly at my side.

“I’m . . . gonna see Dad.”

“That’s your painting, honey!”

“I know.”

“You have to stay. Don’t be silly, flouncing off.” She took my hand, anchoring me to the spot.

“Four fifty, four hundred and fifty, thank you, ma’am.”

Noah was still standing at the front, just off to the side of my painting, staring right at me.