Chapter 7: A Fragile Truce
The kettle clicked off with a sharp snap. Helen poured the boiling water into a ceramic teapot, her movements practiced and soothing. She set out three mismatched mugs on the counter—one featuring a faded college logo, another plain white, and a third with a chipped handle that Arthur had accidentally dropped two years ago.
"Arthur, plug your phone into the kitchen outlet using my spare cord," Helen instructed, reaching into her blue blazer pocket and pulling out a white cable. "If Julian calls back from the shelter or if the police department needs another signature, you need to be reachable. But keep the ringer on low."
Arthur nodded, taking the cord and plugging it into the wall beneath the counter. Within seconds, the black screen of his smartphone flickered to life, displaying a cascade of missed notifications—four emails from his department head, two text messages from Julian’s court-appointed counselor, and one missed call from an unknown downtown number.
He didn't open them. Instead, he watched the battery icon slowly pulse red at one percent, then turn yellow as the current began to flow.
Clara sat at the small wooden kitchen table, her hands wrapped around the chipped mug Helen had handed her. The red dress pooled around her chair, the grease stain mercifully hidden in the folds of the fabric away from the light. She looked exhausted, the sharp anger of the hallway having burned down to a dull, aching exhaustion.
"Did you go to the gallery at all before you came here?" Clara asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the rising steam from her tea.
Arthur pulled out a chair opposite her and sat down, keeping his hands flat on the scarred wooden surface. "I walked past the front doors around eight o'clock. The lights were on. I saw people milling about with wine glasses. I saw your work hanging on the main wall under the spotlight."
"Why didn't you go in?"
"Because I looked like I'd been dragged through a puddle behind a bus," Arthur said with a faint, humorless smile. "And because I knew that if I walked in smelling of damp wool and police station disinfectant, I would make your night about my chaos instead of your art."
May you like
Clara looked up, her gaze softening just a fraction. "It was already about your chaos, Arthur. It’s always about your chaos, whether you're in the room or not."
Helen pulled up a third chair, sitting between them like an impartial magistrate. "Well, the night isn't entirely ruined. The exhibition runs through Sunday. You can put on your backup suit tomorrow, Clara, and we can all go down together—without Julian, without the police, and without any excuses."
