Page 31 of Irreplaceable

“Merda.” I pulled back, nearly dropping the cloth.

“Are you okay?” Harper asked, leaning closer to check on me.

“I’m fine,” I grumbled.

“Boy am I glad the assistants are canting the real design.” She laughed. “Judging from the practice, mine would’ve been a hot mess.”

“My fingers would’ve been a hot mess,” I joked.

“Now that would be a shame.” She gave me a meaningful look, filled with promise for later.

Harper smiled and chatted with our teacher as she selected her border stamp, asking insightful questions about the process. The next step was the actual painting, and we sat next to each other once more.

“I get the feeling you want something from me,” she said as she concentrated on her design. “Considering how nice you’re being.”

I knew she was teasing, so I played along and leaned in to say, “Oh, there’s definitely something I want from you.”

“Enjoying yourselves?” the teacher asked.

“Oh yes.” Harper nodded, her excitement clear. “I’ve always wanted to try this!”

“You want to try everything,” I teased, trying not to laugh at the cheeriness of her voice.

“True, but this is… Thank you. It’s amazing.”

The teacher smiled at us, and I smiled at Harper. “My pleasure.”

It was one of the cheapest—and most fun—dates I’d ever been on. And yet, I would’ve spent anything to bring her this much joy.

“These colors are amazing,” Harper said, patiently painting her fabric. “I can’t believe they’re all made from flowers, vegetables, and minerals.”

“Yes. I thought you’d like that. It’s what distinguishes this batik painting studio from many others.”

She nodded. “I do. The entire day has been incredible. Thank you. No one has ever done something so thoughtful for me.”

She leaned over to give me a kiss, and I didn’t even worry about the fact that someone could see it and photograph us. Here in Bali, I had a level of privacy and anonymity that I hadn’t felt in years. I would be as sad to leave that as I was Harper.

“It’s my pleasure,” I said. “I’m happy to do it.”

“Even so.” She returned her attention to the batik. “You’re spoiling me well beyond what we agreed to.”

I shook my head, wishing she’d drop it. “I like spoiling you,” I finally said, surprising myself.

She said nothing more, and we continued painting in silence.

“You seem contemplative today,” she finally said, dipping her brush in the blue paint. “You okay?”

I selected some of the orange. It was vibrant and reminded me of her personality. “I find myself dreading my return home.”

She let out a sigh. “Do you know why I choose the mandala?”

“No.” I shook my head and continued painting.

“For Hindus, it’s a spiritual symbol that represents the idea that life is never-ending and everything is connected. It’s about going with the flow of life. About letting go of resistance and moving forward.”

“And that’s what you think we should do—let go and move on?” I asked.

She kept her eyes trained on her design. “I think it’s the only option we have.”