“She’s obsessed with that new modeling show on NetVids. I keep finding my makeup in her backpack.”
“Ooh! She. Is. Ready.” I snap my fingers with each word,Zformation.
“And then some! Thanks, Willa. We’ll be back for our Christmas card.”
They walk to their car, and my heart nearly explodes when the chocolate-covered kiddo turns and waves at me. I wave back with a smile and head to my desk to edit.
October is officially the start of my holiday familyphotoshoots, and all the toddlers zooming around my little studio today have been shredding my ovaries. Watching them grow into their personalities is a bonus that makes my heart squeeze. The missing teeth, the squeals of happiness, and even the puppy dog eyes when they find my candy bowl make for a fun and rewarding work experience.
Walking back to my desk, I can’t help but feel proud. Life is exactly how I dreamed it would be. My client following is steadily growing. I have employees I can trust. I’m even planning on advancing Cara to a lead photographer position when I go to Europe. There’s nothing I would change about any part of my life right now, but a break probably should’ve happened a while ago. I’m comfortable, and now it’s time for me to give over some responsibilities after doing it all for the last several years.
Scrolling through the RAW files from the Kimball’s shoot has my eyes misty.What the hell? This is the fifth time today where emotion has tried to leak down my face. I’m no crier, no matter how attached I get to my clients. I’d blame PMS, but I just had my period a week ago. Maybe getting older is turning me into a sap. You get a minute over thirty-one and everything in your body goes haywire.Another sign I need a break.
My stomach growls as I open my photo editing program. Since my bookings have been back-to-back this afternoon, I’ve eaten nothing except for a granola bar on my drive to work. I just want to get these sneak peeks ready, and then I’ll dig the peanut butter crackers out of my bag.
“Hey, Willa, what’s $92.56 times three?” Emily asks from the front desk.
“$277.68,” I mumble around the stylus hanging out of my mouth.
“Thanks. And what’s $143.00 divided by seven?”
“$20.43, rounded up to the nearest penny.”
“Cool. And $26.50 plus?—”
“Emily, find a calculator.” I reach for my stainless-steel waterbottle, and even though I just filled it up, the water tastes tinny already.
“You’re faster than a calculator, though.”
“But I payyouto use a calculator. I’ve had to fiddle with the saturation three times on this photo because of you.” I shake my head like she’s the reason I’ve been distracted all day.Why’s it so hot in here?
“You’re, like, a genius though. I’m trying to work smarter, not harder.”
Rolling my eyes, I focus back on the screen in front of me. She’s not wrong. I taught myself to read by age three and surpassed everyone in my gifted classes by second grade. But I didn’t speak much as a child. I’d rather click through grainy photos on the old slide projector or read classic novels than play outside.Moby Dickwas less frustrating than making friends. My parents were fine with anything that kept me out of their way, so they didn’t see any issues back then. I learned to hide most of my social problems by leaning into bluntness and sarcasm by the time I reached middle school, but my parents still expected me to play the “studious older daughter” role.
When we moved from Vegas to Fort Bender, I was the perfect overachiever with a 4.3 GPA. I was a polyglot on the fast track to pre-med during high school. The only parent-approved extracurriculars were college courses and accounting club. In their eyes, books and straightA’s were the only companions I needed. But when it came time to apply to universities, I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t what I wanted for myself. Everything I’d worked so hard to achieve was my parents’ dream. When I gave it all up, they insisted I was throwing my life away and refused to support me in it. They still don’t. But even after a decade long estrangement, I regret nothing. I’ll take studio time over organic chemistry any day of the week.
“Is it hot in here?” I ask, more to myself than to Emily. The AC is running, but I’m still dripping sweat under my arms. My heart’s beating a little fast too. I pull at the collar of my dressrepeatedly, trying to fan my face. Maybe I’m catching that flu that’s been going around. One downside of working with young families, they bring chubby cheeks and all their little germs.
“Nope. Thermostat’s where it usually is.”
My stomach rumbles, clearly missing the memo that I have more important things to worry about. I ignore it, checking the time on the digital wall clock.Thirty minutes until my last family. Another swig from my water makes me gag, so I set it on the far edge of my desk while working the metal taste out of my mouth.
Edits,Willa.EDITS.
Shifting my attention back to my computer, I get as far as selecting the next file before my stomach gurgles. My thoughts drift to what food could possibly be in the fridge in the back, which reminds me the Craft family requested a smoky effect in their pictures. I’ll need to have Emily grab the dry ice out of the freezer a little before they get—Why can’t I fucking focus?
The sheer volume of my stomach’s revolt gets me out of my chair. Fine. Whatever. Just a quick snack.And then edits.I take a step toward the front desk for my bag when black spots dance across my vision. Swaying briefly, I grab the back of my chair, blinking a few times to clear the haze. When I try to take another step, my head squeezes tightly, and I reach for my temples.
“You okay, Boss Lady?”
“I—yeah. I’m just dizzy, and I?—”
My knees give out, and I crumple to the floor. The last thing I hear is Emily yelling my name and something clattering to the tiles.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WILLA
