Chase Me If You Can(5)
My mind whirls. Part of the magic of photographing storms is the duality of it. The power of nature to both heal and destroy. I’m not certain yet how to tell that particular story in a single frame, but my first instinct is to find foregrounds where I can create a juxtaposition between the delicate and the destructive.
After a review of “the lawyer stuff” the call wraps up. One final glance at Wes leaves me certain he hasn’t heard a word, his attention still on someone or something out of the frame and a hard set to his jaw.
I can’t focus on Wes. The contest is too important and I have too much left to do.
Chapter Two
It doesn’t take long to finish up the last couple of photos and send the final images off to my remaining couples. My bags are mostly packed, with just about everything stacked next to the door for the morning. All that’s left is one last thing I’d really rather just…not.
Reluctantly, I open the text thread with my two younger brothers and take a deep breath.
Reminder that I leave tomorrow. Mom is your responsibility for the next six weeks. That means check on her. Repeatedly. The lawn NEEDS to get mowed so the HOA doesn’t fine her again. No repeats of her losing her shit on Mrs. Campbell in the driveway like last year.
Sam sends back the saluting emoji within thirty seconds. Eric types for so long I’m expecting a novel, but in the end, he just says, You give us this lecture every year. Mom is almost fifty. House hasn’t burned down yet.
Of course it hasn’t. I’ve spent my whole life running around with fire extinguishers—the metaphorical and literal kind.
I scowl at the screen. Eric is the older of my brothers at twenty-five, with a very selective ability to adult. When it comes to his business—an auto body shop he’s worked hard to turn into reliable income—he’s nothing but responsible. On the other hand, there’s not much difference between him and Sam, who’s two years younger and finishing law school, when it comes to managing our mother.
And she definitely needs managing.
Mom had us young. I never knew my dad, who took off when I was still a baby, and though my brothers sometimes see their father, he wasn’t much interested in having a stepdaughter for the short time he stuck around.
Eric and Sam only know the after version of our mom. The one with a bad case of learned helplessness and a firm belief that a man is the solution to all of life’s problems, even if that man is ten red flags in a trench coat. Especially if he’s ten red flags in a trench coat.
And my brothers only know the version of me who became responsible for picking up the pieces far too young—and never figured out how to stop twenty-something years later. Consequently, our relationship teeters between periods of closeness and times where I wonder if we’re just trauma bonded from the same never-ending chaos surrounding our mother.
Not wanting to go to bed with lingering resentment toward my man-child brothers so fresh, I open my chaser group text thread to check in. I’ve been chasing long enough that there are dozens of names and numbers in my contacts I can always reach out to for intel or advice, but I spend the majority of my time with a smaller core group. Years ago, it was just me and Tracy. Once she started dating Matt, unfortunately for me, his best friend, Wes, got added to our merry band of misfits. Now that Tracy and Matt are engaged, there’s no escaping Wes for the foreseeable future.
I must have pissed in the universe’s Cheerios this morning, because Wes is the first thing I see when I open our text thread. Matt’s Enjoy that paint job while it lasts is followed by a barrage of baseball, tennis ball, and tornado emojis, along with a series of screenshots taken off Wes’s social media. In his usual snug T-shirt and a pair of dark jeans, he’s leaned back with his elbows on the hood of a brand-new SUV, gazing off into the distance like he’s posing for a fashion shoot. The fact that the custom Chase vanity plate is visible confirms that the shiny new ride definitely belongs to him.
It’s the sort of thing he’s known for. One part adventure photographer, one part thirst trap. As talented as Wes is behind the camera, he doesn’t have a million-plus followers who are just really into landscapes. Every time I glance at his page, there are plenty of women—and men—in his comments with everything from cheesy pickup lines—I’ll be a tornado if you’ll chase me might be the most eye-rolling yet—to explicit invitations.
Wes’s reply in the group text is twenty minutes old. You can admit you’re jealous. This is a safe space. He added a few more shots of himself in the same general pose, except this time he’s drenched, and he’s found a cowboy hat who knows where. His clothes cling like a second skin, jeans painted to his thighs and thumbs hooked into his belt while he smolders directly into the camera.
He should be staring at the storm looming like the end of the world behind him—but that’s Wes. Too busy feeding his ego to pay attention to anything else.
Annoyed, I swipe out of the group text and tap on Tracy’s name instead. I see Wes is on his usual bullshit already.
Her reply comes back a few minutes later as I’m brushing my teeth. I was just about to text you! Matt and I had lunch with him today. He said he saw you last week. Are you out here early and didn’t tell me?!
I’m surprised that he mentioned it, but then again, he’s close with Matt, so maybe it’s not that strange. Shaking my head, I quickly explain about the wedding. Thankfully the conversation turns to the forecast and our hopes that the models for the next couple of days showing higher dew points—the moisture-rich air needed to fuel storms—prove accurate.