“Even you, huh?” I manage. And even though I know Reid would’ve said it more directly, I hope he knows what I’m really asking. I hope he knows I’m asking whether he’s forgiven me for those seven hidden letters.

He puts his hands in his jacket pockets. He looks at me for a long time.

“Even me,” he says, finally. And then he adds, quietly, the most perfect, special fragment, the one I know I’ll be drawing for days and days. “Especially me.”

Chapter 10

Chapter 10

“Wow,” Lark says, staring down at the pile of sketches in front of her. “This is a lot.”

She doesn’t say “a lot” as though she’s happy about it, and given what I know about her decision-making capabilities, I suppose that’s fair enough. Maybe I should’ve done fewer treatments, or streamlined her options. But I can’t say I regret it.

Because everything laid out in front of us here? The bold, brightly colored compositions, the different iterations of the lettering Lark picked? The mix-and-match styles, the shapes I’ve formed with different letter arrangements?

All of it means I’m finally, finally unblocked.

Almost every idea on these pages I owe to the game, to the time Reid and I spent together last Saturday after the park. With my cramps abated and a new lightness between us as we’d walked and snapped photos, my pendulum had swung strongly in the direction of “needing tacos,” and since I’d pretty much abandoned any modesty when it came to my period feelings, I’d told Reid immediately.

“I think there’s a place around here you’d like,” he’d said. Sadly, he had not touched my elbow again as he led the way.

Happily, though, “like” had been an understatement. The restaurant had been inspiration city—signs painted on the walls everywhere I looked, bold and bright, advertising Cervezas and Micheladas over the bar, Tortillas and Salsas and Tostadas in the dining room. Even some of the mirrors on the walls had been painted, one with a gorgeous, vintage-looking script that I’d sketched right away, flipping over the half sheet of paper we’d been given to check off our taco order.

We’d sat at the sticky-surfaced table, the bar loud at our backs, and shared everything we ordered. We ate food that was as bright and delicious as the signs around us. Ripe, pale-green avocado. Perfectly roasted, gold-yellow corn. Bowls of deep-red salsa. Dark, spicy black beans. The translucent purple of chopped red onions.