Can't. Helping at the bakery.
Holly.
What?
You can't hide in cookies forever.
* * *
My phone rings. Sarah, a wedding coordinator I've worked with on at least a dozen events. She's sharp, funny, and doesn't tolerate nonsense. She's also plugged into every professional network in the region, which means she's most certainly seen the photo.
“Holly! How are you? Are you taking new clients for spring?”
Not what I expected. “I—yes? Potentially. Why?”
“The Dawsons want to hire you for their thirtieth anniversary party. April timeline, about two hundred guests, they're thinking garden party situation but they're flexible.”
“The Dawsons?” I open my laptop, already pulling up my calendar. “From the Walsh wedding?”
“The same. Apparently they were impressed by how you handled that blizzard situation.” Sarah pauses. “Also, they saw the photo.”
My fingers freeze on the keyboard. “And they still want to hire me?”
“Holly.” Sarah's voice shifts—still professional, but warmer. “You survived a social media moment with class. You didn't issue some performative statement. You didn't over-share. You just ... let it blow over. That's how you know someone's a real professional.”
“But people must think I'm just—” I can't finish the sentence.
“What, a social climber? Please.” Sarah laughs. “You reorganized the Harborview Hotel’s entire vendor system in three hours when their coordinator quit mid-event. You made the Walsh wedding happen during an actual blizzard. You're good at what you do. That's why people hire you.”
I lean back in my chair, phone pressed to my ear.
“Also—between us?” Sarah says. “I've been rooting for you two since I saw that photo. You looked happy. Really happy. I hope you figure it out.”
“Sarah—”
“I know, I know. None of my business. But I had to say it.” She's back to business mode. “Now, about the Dawsons.”
We talk through preliminary details—potential dates, venue options, their style preferences. By the time we hang up, I have three pages of notes and a calendar hold for their initial consultation.
I can't help but open my message window. I scroll back through our text conversations like they might tell me something I don't already know.
Saturday, December 21st, 11:47 PM:
Marie says Josh is tapping through every class. Driving his teacher crazy.
Evan
Tell the teacher it builds rhythm.
She says it builds a headache.
Valid.
Goodnight, tap dance enabler.
Goodnight.
That was the last normal conversation. Before the photo. Before everything.
