But they made it feel dirty and shameful just to work for Dr. Bradley.
Nate appeared beside me and said in a low tone, "Are you alright?"
"Fine," I said, but I didn't look at him.
"You don't look fine."
"I'm managing." I moved to the other end of the table, putting distance between us.
The gossip hounds would just love to see him comforting me, wouldn’t they?
But when I finally looked up at him, he seemed hurt by my pulling away.
I felt like I was living on a teeter-totter ready to fall off.
The morning dragged on.
More donors arrived, more toys and clothing were piled into the bins, and more whispers followed me wherever I went.
A photographer from the local newspaper showed up around eleven, snapping pictures of the event.
Every click of the camera shutter made my stomach clench.
I was in the middle of helping a family unload their donations from their Radio Flyer wagon when Nate approached with the photographer in tow.
"Ember, the newspaper would love to get a photo of us together with the collection bins," he said. "For the article they're running tomorrow." His use of my given name sent conflicting emotions through me.
I loved my name on his lips, but being too casual would appear that we were closer than we let on.
I looked at the photographer, then at the camera in his hands, and felt my chest tighten. "I don't think that's necessary."
Wasn't the shock of seeing one image of us in the tabloids enough for him?
"It's standard practice for these events," Nate said carefully. "Just a quick photo." He looked nervous, but there was no way he was feeling what I was feeling.
"I said no." The words came out harsh, but the way I was feeling, he was lucky I wasn't shouting.
I wanted to go hide from this.
I was overstimulated and out of control and I knew it.
The photographer looked between us, clearly uncomfortable, and Nate's jaw tightened. "All right," he said quietly. "We'll skip the photo."
Nate stood there watching the photographer walk away, and I felt awful immediately.
He'd been trying to fulfill his Lightkeeper duties, and I'd snapped at him in front of a reporter.
It was unprofessional and immature and backed up everything the busybodies in this town were saying about me.
As soon as the family I was working with walked away, I found Nate right at my side, beckoning me into a more private location behind a bush. "Ember."
"I'm sorry," I said before he could speak. "That was unprofessional. You were right, we should've taken the photo."
My throat felt constricted, but the only way to loosen it was to go home and hide.
"I don't care about the photo." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so passing families wouldn't overhear. "I care that you're clearly struggling and I don't know how to help."
"I'm fine." It was sweet of him to care, but there wasn’t anything he could do. I'd even seen therapists to no avail.
