Chase Me If You Can(91)
Since I’m still sitting at my desk, I click over into my personal folder and give the photo of me in the dress a long, critical look. The day it was shot, I felt powerful and feminine. Like some part of me could stare down the storms of life without flinching. Like I’d finally found a way to embrace the side of me that likes pretty dresses and pink silk without feeling like I was caving to my mother’s criticisms. Like just this once, I didn’t have to try to be one of the guys to avoid being objectified by other storm chasers.
But then when it was time to submit, I flinched. I went with the safe option. The one that met what I thought the magazine wanted. What other photographers would expect of a woman. It wasn’t my mother, or Wes, or even the magazine—I put myself in a box.
Wes ignored my express wishes and lost my trust in the process. But that isn’t a good enough reason to turn down this opportunity to decide if I want to stay in that box, or if I want to be the woman in the photo.
The woman in the photo would be brave.
“That’s okay,” I tell Amelia, certainty settling in my bones. “I’ll leave it. The dress photo, I mean.”
“Are you sure? You won’t be able to change your mind.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, Sloane. I’ll let Carter know. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re making the right decision. I’ll be rooting for you when they announce the winners in three weeks. Good luck.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Wes calls about an hour after I hang up with Amelia. I don’t answer. I send four more calls to voicemail before the day is over.
It’s another three days before he calls again. I ignore that too. Hours later, long after midnight, with occasional fireworks still going off from the July Fourth holiday, I’m still at my desk. I’m already ahead on my workload, but editing another set of client photos is a tidy way to avoid arguing with myself over listening to the last voicemail Wes left—but I’m not distracted enough to not notice when my phone lights up with a text.
I’ll back off for now, but I’m not giving up on us.
One tiny sob escapes before I ruthlessly swallow the rest and delete the voicemail without listening to it. I’m not strong enough to face that underneath the anger, underneath the hurt, I miss Wes.
Some part of me wants to forgive him. Late at night, when I’m alone in my bed, a little voice inside me whispers that maybe he deserves a second chance. He made things right with Nature Shots, just like he said he would.
But I’ve always known that everything between us was little more than a house of cards ready to collapse at the first stiff breeze. I knew getting too close to him would turn me into collateral damage. That when it all came down, I would be the one scraping myself up off the floor yet again. That Wes would do what he always does and somehow skate by without a single consequence.
And for the ten days after our disastrous phone call, it sure as hell looks like that’s exactly what happens. At least until I finally text Tracy for permission to use some of her wedding photos to promote my hopeful pivot to adventure weddings.
Oh good. You ARE alive.
I deserve that. I’ve been avoiding Tracy—and everyone else—to throw myself into work. It’s not unusual for June, when she’s still out chasing, and I’m up to my eyeballs in brides, but I won’t pretend I haven’t been leaning hard into the excuse this year.
Sorry! June is always nuts.
Less than twenty seconds after I send my reply, Tracy calls. My thumb hovers over the screen as I debate sending her to voicemail. There’s no way she’s calling right this second just to talk about a handful of photos on my website.
Matt must have told her about the breakup by now. Of course she wants to know what happened. The worst part is, I can’t even blame her. Any normal person would have called and unloaded the whole sad story, but her husband is the closest thing Wes has to a best friend. Putting Tracy in the middle isn’t fair either.
But I just asked her for a favor. And I can’t avoid everyone forever, so I swallow past the lump in my throat, squeeze my eyes shut at the tears that seem to lurk just beneath the surface these days, and answer the call.
“Of course you can use the photos,” Tracy says by way of greeting.
“Great! I’ll—”
“We ran into Wes this afternoon,” she cuts in. “He looks awful. Like he hasn’t slept in a week.”
Does he feel like a part of him died too?
“You know Wes,” I say with forced cheer. “He doesn’t know when to stop chasing.”
Tracy doesn’t laugh at my pitiful attempt at humor. “He hasn’t talked to Matt in weeks beyond trading intel. He’s been keeping to himself. We both thought he was moping about you going home, but then earlier today…I’m worried, Sloane. I think he’s lost weight. He just pumped gas, went inside to grab some energy drinks, and left without so much as a wave. Is everything okay between you two?”
I blink, surprised. “He didn’t tell Matt?”
“Tell Matt what?”
It’s a struggle not to choke on the sudden knot in my throat. A wounded noise escapes despite my best effort to keep it in, and Tracy’s tone goes from frustrated to concerned in a blink. “Sloane? Hey, you okay?”