“You sure?” she asks. “You’ve only done customers two other days and—”
“I promise I’ll text you if I start to drown. I won’t overreach.”
She nods. “Okay.”
And then she slips—with the pastry box under her arm, the brat—toward the back of the shop.
I don’t greet the customers with a chipper welcome, but I do offer them a polite nod, before turning back to my plate and popping the rest of my quiche in my mouth.
“？’Scuse me,” a small voice calls.
I turn around, covering my quiche-stuffed chipmunk cheeks with one hand, signaling with a lift of my finger that I need a moment.
A kid who stands as tall as my hip peers up at me, wide brown eyes and a cheery smile.
“Sorry about that,” I tell them, after forcing myself to swallow my barely chewed food. “What’s up?”
“You got journals?” they ask.
I nod. “Yep. Right over there.” I point toward the second row of thin shelves taking up the right side of the store.
The kid frowns up at me. “What’s on your neck?”
“What? Oh.” I peer down at my camera. “That’s a camera. I take pictures for my job.”
“I thought you sold journals for your job.”
That makes me laugh. “Guess I’m a jack-of-all-trades.”
“That’s my name. Jack. Not Jackie. He/him/his.” He offers his hand, and I take it.
“Nice to meet you, Jack Not Jackie. I’m Kate Not Katie. She/her/hers.”
Jack’s smile is pure joy. “Cool.”
His eyes dance to my camera, brightening with curiosity. “Can I take some pictures with your camera?”
“Sure.” I lift my camera off my neck and crouch, handing it to him. “This is a really valuable camera, so can you be super careful?”
He nods. “Yeah.” Frowning down at the camera, he taps a button, bringing the digital display to life. “You can see your pictures when you take them? Like a phone camera?”
“Yep, same deal. What do you want to take a picture of?”
He bites his lip and looks around, then settles on me. “You.”
I laugh, surprised. “Me?”
He nods, then without preamble, lifts the camera, and with that confidence I love in kids, snaps a picture. “Now can you take a picture of me?”
“Sure. So long as whoever takes care of you is okay with it.”
“We are,” a voice says, making me glance up. A gorgeous couple stands together, smiling our way. Jack is the perfect blend of them.
“I’m Hugh, Jack’s dad,” the man says. “And this is Jack’s mom, Tia.”
Tia waves.
I smile up at them. “Hi, Hugh and Tia.”
“Yay!” Jack yells. “C’mon, picture time!”
“Okay, Jack, where do you want to stand? Anywhere along this wall is good, so you won’t be backlit.”
He rushes over to the display, near the bouquet of flowers that were waiting for me when I got here. “How’s this?” he asks. “By the pretty flowers.”
“That’s perfect.”
Jack puffs up his chest proudly and smiles, hands on his hips. “This is my first picture with my new haircut.”
“You got a new haircut?” I ask, squinting as I tweak the lens’s focus. “It looks great.”
Jack nods, rubbing a hand over his tight, close-cropped black curls. “Day after Thanksgiving. I love it.”
I smile. “Good. You look picture-perfect. I’ll take it on three. One, two, three.”
Click.
“Can I see?” he yells, scrambling toward me and clawing at my arm in that affectionate, guileless way kids have that makes them instantly feel like a friend.
“Here you go.” Tipping the screen, I show Jack his picture—the dark-wash jeans stretching down his knobby-kneed kid legs, his bright green and orange striped sweater.
Jack traces his hand along the screen, outlining his image. Over his short hair, down the line of his sweater and his jeans. “I love it.”
“Good.”
Jack smiles at me. “Thank you, Kate.”
“You’re welcome, Jack.” I stand and slip the camera off my neck, setting it in its case on the desk. “Can I email this to you? Would you like that, if I sent this to Mom and Dad?”
He nods. “Thank you! I’m gonna go get my journal now.” And then he runs off.
“Thanks for doing that,” Tia says warmly. “I’m going to go make sure he doesn’t take out a row of stationery.”