“Greetings from Vancouver.”
Oh god. She was already gone.
I was happy for her. I was, I was. Of course I was.
But … just … who was going to model for me now?
I was in a uniquely terrible position—because I had to do a uniquely bizarre set of things to this person. I couldn’t just hire some random art model. I barely felt comfortable doing all these things to Sue. And we’d seen each other in bathing suits!
I felt an urge to cry clasping at my throat. But I swallowed it—hard.
I was not going to ruin Sue’s kidnapping-elopement by bursting into tears. I just refused to be that person.
I took a deep breath instead, and I ratcheted my face into a big, bright smile. “I’m so happy for you,” I said.
“You are?”
“Of course! Being kidnapped to Canada is every girl’s dream.”
“But what about your portrait?”
“Pah,” I said, making the most dismissive noise I could think of. “Models are a dime a dozen. I’ll have your replacement before you can eat a beaver tail.”
“Nice Canada reference.”
“You’re welcome.”
It dawned on me that we needed to wrap this up before my voice started trembling. “You realize, of course, I’m going to make you do a pretend second wedding later so I can be a bridesmaid.”
“Done and done,” Sue said.
I made her promise to text me lots of pictures. And save the bouquet. And drink a whole bottle of maple syrup. And then I blew kisses into the phone. And then I hung up …
And started crying.
Broken lock. Sick dog. No model. Evil stepsister. Best-friend-less, moneyless, jobless. Not to mention suddenly face-blind at the worst possible time. And about to fumble my first—and now probably last—big break.
What the ever-loving hell had happened to my life?
It had never been perfect before, by any means—but at least it had some potential.
I couldn’t pull it together, but I couldn’t make myself go back to Joe’s apartment, either, so I just stood there in the hallway crying. This is good, I kept telling myself. This is emotionally healthy. You’ve got to feel your feelings.
I was feeling them, all right.
I felt them and felt them—until I finally looked up to see Joe coming out of his place with a box of tissues.
“I was going to let you cry it out,” Joe said, holding out the box as he got to me. “But then I started worrying you’d get dehydrated. Medically.”
“I’m not a big crier,” I said, pulling out a tissue to blow my nose.
“If you say so.”
I stuffed the tissue in my pocket and took the box from him. “Seriously.”
“I eavesdropped on your conversation,” Joe confessed. “Not on purpose, at first—but then I got hooked.”
“It’s fine.” Who cared, honestly? Eavesdropping was so low on my triage list.
“Sounds like your best friend just eloped? For two weeks? Leaving you without a model for your portrait project?”
I nodded and started crying again.
Joe waited until I slowed down, and then he pulled a tissue out of the box for me. “I’ll be your model.”
I dabbed at my face. “What?”
Joe shrugged. “How hard can it be?”
“I can’t ask you to be my model, Joe,” I said.
But he shook his head. “You just have to sit there, right?”
“It’s more than that,” I said. “This is kind of a special project.”
“Wait—” he said then. “Is it a naked portrait? Is this like a Burt-Reynolds-on-a-bearskin-rug deal? I’ll need to grow some better chest hair.”
I tolerated that. “People aren’t ‘naked’ in art. They’re ‘nude.’”
But Joe was grinning at me like he had my number now. “You’re going to make me take my clothes off, aren’t you?”
“No!” I said. “This is a completely normal, non-naked portrait. No clothing will be removed.”
“So what’s the problem?”
I looked down, trying to figure out how to explain it. It didn’t make a lot of sense if he didn’t know about the face blindness—and I was already doubling down on never telling him about that. The more appealing he became, the more he did not need to know how messed up my life was.
But how to explain it without explaining it?
“Sue and I were going to try some unconventional techniques,” I said.