Chase Me If You Can(93)
I want to win. Badly. Not just for the money. Not just to prove myself to the chasing community. Not even for the bragging rights of being the first woman on the Nature Shots cover.
I want to win for me. To prove to myself that I’m the woman in the photo. Brave. Capable. A force of nature.
Unable to sit still, I pace my office like a caged beast while Carter Walsh starts the video call and runs through the preliminaries. Just to torture everyone a little more, the sponsors take turns expressing their appreciation for our art and the unique challenges that go into photographing storms, blah, blah, blah.
I’m about to crawl out of my skin when they finally get to the part we’re all here for. Tracy takes third place with her rainbow and tornado shot. I grab my phone and quickly send her an all-caps text that’s mostly exclamation points.
My breath stutters when I hear Wes’s name next. He’s come in second with a shot I recognize from our time together. If I wasn’t standing next to him when he took it, it would be hard to believe he didn’t photoshop the lightning bolt crashing down, perfectly centered between the ruins of old farm equipment.
Some part of me expected him to win the whole thing. The fact that he came in second is so much of a surprise I’m barely paying attention to the rest of the announcement—until I hear my own name.
“…Sloane Michaels, with a stunning image aptly titled Valkyrie, to be revealed at the awards gala. Congratulations to the winners and to everyone who submitted. You are all supremely talented and didn’t make this easy for the judges. Details on the ceremony to be held next month in Los Angeles will be emailed out in the next forty-eight hours. Thanks for joining us!”
My phone starts ringing and doesn’t stop. I’m too stunned to answer, frozen in the middle of my office and staring at what is now a blank window where the live stream once was.
I won.
I’m going to be on the cover of Nature Shots. This time, when the numbness cracks, there’s no stopping the tears that flood down my cheeks.
Wes is the person whose voice I want to hear most right now. He’s the one I want to celebrate this moment with. He’s the one I want to hear whisper in that low bedroom voice I’m so proud of you, darlin’.
But Wes isn’t here.
My phone continues to light up with a flood of incoming texts. I didn’t realize how invested the overall chasing community was in this contest—every chaser I know in possession of my phone number sends well wishes and joking complaints that I’ve been hiding a stunning image.
I’m in too much of a daze to wonder why my brothers are bothering to knock when I hear someone at my front door, never mind why they’re two hours early for dinner. I pull the door open and blink at the sight that awaits me. Then I blink again, certain I’ve hallucinated the enormous bouquet of flowers dwarfing the delivery guy.
He peers out from behind the blooms, juggling a clipboard. “Sloane Michaels?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to sign for these.” A glass vase is thrust into my hands. “Careful, it’s heavy.”
I eye the bouquet, a mix of roses and peonies and calla lilies all in deep shades of pink that too closely match the dress in my cover photo—my cover photo!—to be coincidence. It must have cost a small fortune to get them to my doorstep within an hour of the announcement.
Either Nature Shots has a hell of a publicist working overtime, or…
“Who are they from?” I croak.
The delivery guy shrugs. “Not my department. Mind signing? Got a few more deliveries to make.”
“Right, yes, of course.” I barely manage to scribble my name on the electronic pad without dropping anything. Then it’s just me and the emotional landmine of a bouquet.
I bring the vase into the kitchen and set it on the counter before eyeing it with trepidation. There’s a card tucked into the middle of the blooms, the small envelope a pale pink taunt as my kitchen fills with a delicious floral scent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scold myself after a few minutes of silent standoff with the flowers. I pluck the card out and quickly rip it open, determined to get this over with.
I’m so proud of you. I miss you.
I slap my palm over my mouth to stifle the sob that breaks free. It’s what I wanted to hear, but the impersonal serif font just emphasizes the current chasm between us.
I trace my fingertip over the slant of the W beneath the short message and struggle to keep breathing as longing slams into me. Burying my face in the flowers, I take a deep breath of their sweet scent. My emotions are all over the place. Anything I decide now will be a knee-jerk reaction. I debate sending Tracy a photo of the bouquet for advice, but she just won too. Better to let her celebrate in peace without my relationship drama.
Wes and I will both be in Los Angeles in a couple of weeks for the gala. If I’m going to let him back into my life, into my heart, I need to be certain it’s the right choice, not an emotional reaction in an emotional moment.
Today, I start small. First by digging the pink dress out of my closet and promptly dropping it off at the dry cleaner. And then, once I’m home and have changed my mind so many times I’m sick of thinking about it, I send a simple text.
Thank you for the flowers.
It’s a pretty half-assed olive branch. Wes replies in less than a minute anyway.