“And they’re bringing a gopher tortoise?” I say, tapping out the last line of my email.
“Yes, and his name is Bandit,” she replies. “I mean, just look at that face.” She flashes me her phone screen over top of my laptop, showing me a video of a large gopher tortoise eating lettuce.
“Ugh, the strong silent type and he’s health-conscious? Have I just met my soulmate?” I tease.
She laughs, tucking her phone away as she rattles off three more things from her list. We’ve been like a hive of buzzing bees in the office all day. Joey is over at the venue now, overseeing the DJ delivery and set-up. And Nancy is out haunting all the local party supply shops, trying to get us some emergency cutlery after our order apparently fell off the back of a truck.
I can plan events like this in my sleep, but it’s been fun to work with the team. Cheryl and Nancy have great connections in the area, and they’re good at networking. We’ve got several reps from other local nature conservancy groups coming, including our new friends at the FWC, the North Florida Land Trust, and the Duval Audubon Society.
Every Ray on the roster RSVP’d yes, and practically all of them are bringing a plus one. We have a whole range of Jacksonville personalities coming too—city council reps, prominent business owners, even a few other sports celebrities. At last count, I think we had six Jacksonville Jaguars coming with their wives, even some of the Jumbo Shrimp players. It will be a night by Jacksonville, for Jacksonville, with all the proceeds going to support our local dunes, nesting ground for the sea turtles.
“What did we decide about the balloons?” says Cheryl, still focused on her list.
“We nixed balloons. Environmental scourge, remember?”
“Oh, right,” she says with a laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Oh—and that box arrived for you while you stepped out for coffee,” she adds, pointing to a small box on the corner of her desk.
Her phone rings and she answers it, her voice chipper as she deals with some catering question. In moments, she’s pushing her way out of the office, arguing the price of bacon-wrapped dates. She likes to pace when she talks on the phone, and this office is too cramped. At the end of the hall is a terrace meant for smokers. Now it’s Cheryl’s mobile office. She storms away, leaving the door open.
As soon as she’s gone, I pick up the box perched on the edge of her desk. There’s no return address label. Again. I bring the box over to my desk. Picking up my letter opener, I slice under the flaps, breaking the tape. Heart in my throat, I drop the little knife with a clatter and peel back the top flaps of the box, peering inside.
“Oh god.”
Tears spring to my eyes as I take in the contents: a mess of printed photos, all of Ryan and me. I knew I was being followed, but I typically got the tingling sense when I was walking alone from the coffee shop to my car. Or a few times on the beach, walking with Rachel and her guys. I saw the occasional dark SUV, too, parked down the street. I made notes each time, just like Charlie suggested. But this is…
My stomach churns as I pick up a stack of the photos, flipping through them. Ryan going into the house on his crutches. Me coming out, bag over my shoulder, tumbler of iced tea in hand. Ryan and I getting into his car when I’m wearing the cherry dress. Our date night.
I flip through the next few photos. Yep, Ryan and I on our date. The photos are grainy, like they were taken outside through the glass. We’re talking, laughing as I’m leaning in over the table. The photos display a casual intimacy, a comfort.
I want to be sick. It’s such a violation.
I glance up sharply, looking around the small office. The photographer brought these here. He dropped them off. He was in this space. He likely watched and waited until I left to go on our coffee run, then brought the box up to Cheryl, posing as a delivery guy. My resolve hardens as I make a mental note. Install cameras. I’ll pay for them myself if I have to, but first thing Monday morning, I am putting a camera up in this office pointed right at the door.
I keep flipping through the stack in my hands.
Photos of us walking down the boardwalk, arm in arm. It’s night, the photos are dark, difficult to see anything. More photos of us at the beach, these in daylight. Ryan stands next to me, looking down at me like I’m his reason, while Ranger John explains how to stake out a nest mound. Fuck, there are children in these photos.
“Oh my god,” I say again, hands shaking as I drop the photos to my desk and grab out the next stack.