Thelightinthepenthouse was too pretty for editing photos, but there I was, doing exactly that. Every click of my trackpad sounded accusatory, the light dancing across the tops of my hands as I moved the specs around, taunting me to stop what I was doing and lift the camera, for God’s sake. Nancy Reagan snored beside me on the couch—dead center on one of Doyle’s poached cashmere sweaters, probably getting the stench of corn chips embedded in the deep, woven fabric.
“Oh well,” I shrugged, moving on to the next round of edits.
The fundraiser photos came out better than I could have imagined—Magnolia mid-laugh, Eunice glowing beside herhusband, Jordan and Doyle in their usual, unbothered bliss. And Charlie—no. I’d cropped him out of most of them. Not out of spite. Just self-preservation disguised as composition.
My phone buzzed, and Dig’s face filled the screen, too close and upside down. He was wearing a sheet mask and what I think was a towel turban. The man commits to skincare like it’s a religion.
“Tell me you’re alive and hydrated,” he said through bites of what looked like cereal in a coffee mug. “And please say you’re not editing in 200% zoom again because that way lies madness.”
“Hi to you, too,” I said, propping the phone against a candle. “And these pores aren’t going to edit themselves.”
Dig blinked slowly. “Those are pixels, babe.”
“Semantics.”
He shifted, which in Dig language meant he was settling in for A Talk. “Okay. Give me the status report. You are currently in Savannah, the city of historic architecture and unresolved feelings. Have you kissed the carpenter yet?”
“Absolutely not. Also he’s an artist, he’s not a carpenter.”
“Tomato, tomahto, he looks like he can lift a house. What happened after the fundraiser? I heard you two were giving smolder and a half.”
“I haven’t seen him,” I shrugged. “Not since that night. Also, where are you getting this information from?” I scanned the room looking for cameras Dig might have planted on his last trip. I truly would not put it past him.
Dig paused, the cereal spoon hovering midair. “Excuse me? And Tally, what do I always tell you?”
I sighed as we both announced, in unison, “Don’t question my methods.”
“Good girl. So where has the carpenter been? Girl, if you’re going for slow burn, we are fried as hell over here.”
“He’s been… busy?” I tried, not correcting him again. “And I’ve been working. And then every time we’re in the same room, it’s like—” I made a gesture that could have been fireworks or indigestion. “Moments. Plural. Then nothing.”
“Moments,” Dig repeated flatly. “Did we make eye contact for longer than three seconds? Did a hand graze occur? Was there a meaningful silence longer than a Vine?”
“First of all, you’re ancient. Second, yes to all of the above.”
“And he hasn’t called?”
“I mean he texted. Once. ‘Great job at the fundraiser’ with two clapping emojis, which is either wholesome or deranged, I can’t decide.” I pulled my cardigan tight around me. “I feel like I’m fourteen again and refreshing AOL for away messages.”
“Sweetheart, if his emotional availability were a beverage, it would be room-temperature seltzer,” Dig said. “Flat, vaguely apologetic, and somehow still disappointing.”
I laughed, which came out more like a hiccup. “I keep thinking I made it up. The… whatever it was.”
“You didn’t make it up,” Dig said, voice gentler. “You are many things—dramatic, talented, chronically dressed like a tragic bohemian witch—but delusional is not one of them. From what I heard, the man stared at you like you’d invented light.”
I pressed my fingertips to my temple. “Then why do they always disappear?”
“Because men are obsessed with the conquest. The second you’re actually available? Crickets. It’s like their dick and their feelings can’t be in the same room.”
“I’m guessing this is coming less from a place of love and more from your newest situationship ghostingyou." I quipped.
“Obviously,” he said. “But also—look at me.” He leaned so close I could count every one of his eyelashes peeking through his face mask. “Sometimes people back away because they care more than they know how to. Sometimes they back awaybecause they don’t. You’ll figure out which one he is. Either way, you’re fine.”
I swallowed. “I hate that you’re right.”
“I know. It’s my curse.”
We sat in the shared quiet you only get with the person who’s seen you ugly-cry into a martini. Savannah’s afternoon light slanted across the floor, turning Nancy Reagan’s fur into a halo.
