She presses her lips together. “I’m nobody special.”
“And I’m just some guy who’s good at throwing a ball.” I laugh softly, the sound caught in the cold wind. “Maybe neither of us are special, but that’s not the point. The point is you’re the best person I’ve ever met, and I wish more than anything that that’s how you saw yourself too.”
I reach into my jacket, pulling out the photograph. “I took this a couple of weeks ago. I know it’s shit, but I love how happy you look.”
She takes the photograph, looking down at it. It’s a simple picture I took with my phone, and I liked it so much I printed it out. Put it in my wallet. It’s of Bex taking a photograph in Red’s. She’s wearing a fuzzy pink sweater and those pie-slice earrings, her eyes lit up adorably as she fiddles with the camera.
“I remember this,” she says softly.
“That’s how I see you. When I close my eyes before I go to sleep, when I daydream—I imagine you just like that, making beautiful art. Being you.” I reach out, tweaking her earring; she’s wearing the hoops I got her for Christmas. “You’re worth everything, and you can do whatever you want to do, but don’t sell yourself short, either. This is what you deserve to be doing.”
She leans up and kisses me.
I accept the kiss gladly; some of the tension literally leeches away from my body at the feeling of her lips on mine, her hands clutching the front of my jacket. This is what I needed to feel right again, my girl in my arms.
When she breaks away, she cups my jaw with her cold hand. I just crowd closer. “I need to think,” she says. “Not about us, but about me. About the diner. I made my mom a promise that I would take care of it, and I can’t just… does that make sense?”
I nod. “I’ll be ready when you are.”
She presses her forehead to mine. “Thank you.”
I kiss her again, hungry for more of her kisses after nearly two weeks of missing them. “Whatever you need to do, we can handle it. Together.”
47
BEX
I hang the last photograph on the wall, then take a step back, looking nervously at the whole set. When I arrived, the gallery owner, a woman named Janet who is quite possibly the most glamorous woman I’ve ever met, gave me an entire wall to work with.
Laura, who came early to help me set everything up, looks at me. “What do you think?”
“I think it looks okay.” I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress. I’m wearing a little black dress with sheer tights, despite the bitter February weather outside, but I’ve been so anxious the whole time that I’m not even feeling chilly. “I mean, I guess?”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” she says, pulling me into a sideways hug. “This looks amazing.”
“Great use of white space,” Janet says as she floats by, her shawl fluttering slightly.
Laura bites back a giggle. “See? Great use of white space. Fabulous.”
I release a shaky breath. “Well, it’s how I want it.”
“Good.” She takes a few steps back and whips her phone out. “Smile, let me take your picture.”
I flush, looking around the gallery. The other contest finalists are working on their own displays, and it’s clear that most of them know each other, because they keep socializing, walking over to each other’s spaces to offer feedback and compliments. They’ve been ignoring me, which is fine, but it doesn’t mean I’m not a little self-conscious.
The semester is in full swing again, which means wrapping up my major requirements, enjoying one more semester of living with Laura, spending time with James, who wasn’t suspended for the fight once the school heard my report about Darryl, and scaling back my shifts at The Purple Kettle so I can photograph some of the McKee hockey games.
This gallery show, the opportunity to work more on my sports photography—it’s bumping up against the diner in uncomfortable ways, and despite telling James I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure what to do. Before this year, even the thought of leaving my mother alone to deal with the diner was impossible. I promised her I wouldn’t, and I always intended to stick to my word. Now? I come closer to wanting to leave every day, but I don’t know if I can trust her with the business. She’s been more involved lately, but I’m still there most days of the week, putting out （metaphorical） fires and making sure things run smoothly. I wouldn’t be able to do that from San Francisco, which is where James will end up, if the latest rumors coming out of the NFL are to be believed.
“You look so pretty,” Laura gushes. She shows me the photograph. Honestly, I think I look super stressed, but maybe that’s just because it’s how I feel. In less than an hour, a whole bunch of people are going to be looking at my photography while I’m standing right next to the display. I’m going to hear their opinions. And with a little luck, I’ll win five thousand dollars, although the painter across the room from me is seriously talented, so if I had to give the prize to someone, I would choose them.
“I guess so,” I say.
“James is coming, right?”
“Yep. And probably his brothers, too.”
Laura sighs. “Cooper is so hot.”
I make a face. “You like the beard?”
“Definitely. Not that James isn’t cute with his whole clean-cut serious quarterback vibe, but Coop’s the one I’d tap.”
“Good to know,” I say dryly. “Considering James is mine.”
“He is cute,” someone agrees.
I turn, my eyes widening as I take in the fact my mother is standing in front of me, a bouquet of flowers in her arms. She kisses my cheek. “I know I’m early,” she says. “But I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I glance back at the display, wondering if maybe I should do some more rearranging, but my gut tells me no, it’s perfect. “I guess I’m done. I have a couple minutes before the gallery opens.”
She cradles the bouquet in the crook of her arm, holding out her hand. “There’s a little cafe next door, Nicole got us a table.”
“We can’t be long,” I warn.
“We won’t be,” she promises. “We’ll see you in a few minutes, Laura.”
I grab my coat and throw it on as I follow her out of the gallery. It’s weird enough to be in New York City, but seeing my mother here? I can’t remember the last time she left town, much less did something like this. Fortunately, the cafe is quite literally next door; I see Aunt Nicole in the window, sitting with a mug of tea in front of her.
“Bex!” she says, standing to hug me when we meet her at the table. “I can’t wait to see your photographs!”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down across from her with my coat in my lap. My mom chooses to sit next to Aunt Nicole instead of me, which is a little weird. I’m irrationally worried I’m about to get a lecture, but there’s no reason for that. I tap my ankle boot against the floor. “What’s up?”
They look at each other for a long moment. My mother takes a deep breath. I dig my fingernails into my palms.