Christopher sighs as he rubs his knuckles against the back of my shoulder, where no one at the table can see. “That’s too fast of a turnaround you agreed to.”
“They wanted to have it ready when they kick off funding initiatives in the New Year. I didn’t want to make them wait when I could do it now, even if it was a bit of a crunch. Besides, I don’t have any other projects to tackle at the moment—”
“Besides working nearly full-time at the Edgy Envelope during its busiest time of the year,” he says. “That’s a lot, Kate.”
Dad’s eyebrows lift at the intensity of his tone. Christopher’s focused on me, so he misses my dad’s surprised expression. Mom hides a smile in her coffee cup that I don’t understand, but doesn’t say anything. Bea and Jamie don’t seem to notice, their heads still bent over my photos as they talk.
Jamie, who hands my phone to Mom, peers up and asks, “What are the photos going to be used for?”
“In their new presentation they’ve built for prospective investors,” I tell him.
Mom smiles as she scrolls through the photos. “They’re gorgeous, Kate. I’m so proud of you.”
My throat feels thick. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Now, is this work relatively close to or different from what you did when you were abroad?” Jamie asks, wrapping an arm around Bea as she leans into his shoulder and covers a yawn.
I shrug, scraping my spoon along the burnt-sugar rim of what’s left of my crème br?lée. “Logistically it’s simpler here, but something like this . . . it’s what I’ve always aspired to in my photojournalistic work—activism through storytelling, giving my subjects the chance to be heard, their voices amplified through the power of images that make people stop and listen.”
Bea smiles up tiredly at Jamie. “My baby sister’s a badass.”
“That she is,” Jamie says fondly to her.
Christopher’s silent. But when I peer his way, he’s watching me so intently, I feel it like a dry shock of static electricity.
“Christopher actually made the introduction for me with this nonprofit,” I tell everyone, even though my eyes can’t seem to leave him. “I have a handful of projects waiting for me in the New Year because he won’t stop blabbing about me to his social network.”
A grin tips his mouth, his eyes holding mine. “What good is a social network if you don’t use it? Besides, I didn’t make them hire you. I just sent them your website and told them you’d done the firm’s new headshots. Your work spoke for itself.”
“Do you think you’ll take on those projects after the New Year?” Dad asks, leaning in, elbows on the table. “Or do you think you’ll go abroad for your usual work again?”
Christopher’s suddenly very interested in his empty dinner plate, eyes down, expression tight and unreadable.
I remember what he told me that night he came to the apartment and made pasta, and everything started to change.
I worried about you. I hated that to do your work you took risks and put yourself in danger.
Beneath the table, I reach out until my hand finds his clenched into a fist.
“Much as I loved what I was doing,” I tell Dad, “it’s burned me out. I’m ready for a change. I’ll still travel, sometimes, I hope. But I plan to spend a lot more time at home.”
Bea smiles at me from across the table. “So long as you don’t leave before December 25, for the sake of all those who’d have to deal with Maureen Wilmot losing her ever-loving shit if you were gone for Christmas.”
“Language,” Mom says, before turning toward me, poorly hiding her hopes as she looks at me. “Christmas is just so soon, and you hadn’t left; I assumed you were staying.”
“I’m staying,” I tell her while, still hidden under the table, I stretch my palm across Christopher’s knuckles and feel his grip start to relax, until our fingers tangle. Christopher’s gaze snaps up and our eyes meet. “And I’m not planning on leaving anytime soon.”
* * *
—
“Mom!” I call from the mudroom, where the washer and dryer are set up.
“Yes, Kate!” she calls back.
“Something’s wrong with the washer.”
Popping her head in, Mom wrinkles her brow in confusion. “Oh, dear. You don’t say.”
Dad pops up behind her, frowning. “It is? I just used it this morning—”
“Bill,” Mom says sweetly, turning and smiling up at him. “Would you be a dear and make sure the front door shut properly when Jamie and Bea left? Puck will pull it open if it’s not securely shut, and I’m not in the mood for another midnight frolic in the cold, looking for that tyrannical furball.”