My phone buzzes the second I walk through my door. It's a client I've worked with for two years. The message is short and awkward, full of strange pauses. He's taking a break from promotions and wants to pause our shoots for a while. He'll reach out when things settle down.
Translation: someone whispered something ugly and he believes it. A rush of anger crawls up my throat as I stare at the message. The gossip this morning was harmless, but if it's spreading into work and Jace's life, it isn't.
Losing a regular client isn't just annoying. It chips at the life I built on my own. I set my phone down and take two breaths so I don't smash it against the nearest wall. The frustration won't let up, so I settle for my favorite ritual of making a hot milk tea instead. That's much better than falling apart over one man who would rather trust gossip than his own eyes. I warm the milk, drop in the Assam leaves, and let the steam rise, thick and sweet. The first stir releases that deep, malty smell that settles everything inside me. By the time I pour it into my cup, the world feels much better. A sip in, I take a long sigh and open my laptop to focus on the new project I agreed to last week. A restaurant wants a full set of photos for a seasonal menu, and the chef is trusting me with the entire direction. On any other day, this kind of work would pull me in from the get-go, but today my brain keeps drifting.
I arrange flat-lay props, adjust the mock-up layout, and write notes for color and lighting. None of it sticks. My mind keeps going back to this morning. Gabe peeling a banana like he had trained for it. Gabe tying shoes too tightly. Gabe kneeling in front of my son like it was natural for him to do it.
I hear my own voice in the back of my head.Don't get attached. Don't repeat the past. Don't let your heart act like it has no memory.
I shake it off and keep working, forcing myself to stay focused. I message my friend Maya while rearranging a shot list. She sends me updates from her juice bar, plus a picture of her new assistant slicing lemons wrong on purpose to make her laugh. For a few minutes, it works. My mood lifts.
Then my phone rings. It's Tom calling.
I stare at the screen and almost let it go to voicemail, but then a thought smacks me right in the forehead. If anyone in this town knows the gossip before it even becomes gossip, it's Tom. The man collects drama like it's a frequent-flyer reward.
"Hey," I say, keeping my tone flat.
Tom doesn't bother with greetings. "So I heard something interesting."
I close my eyes. "I'm working, Tom. Can we not do this right now?"
"Oh, I think you'll want to hear this," he says, voice low with that smug edge he thinks sounds masculine. "The whole town is talking about you."
A ripple of unease runs down my spine and I clench my free palm into a fist. "About what?"
"About how you're messing around with some older guy," he says, laughing under his breath. "Someone claimed he's your dad's best friend. Kind of nasty, if you ask me. People think you're doing it for favors. Free stuff. Breaks at work. That kind of thing."
My throat tightens. "That isn't true."
"Doesn't matter," he says. "Rumors stick fast around here. I mean, what happens if your dad finds out? You think he'll be proud? Or will he think the same thing everyone else is thinking?"
I grip the edge of the table. "Tom, stop."
He keeps going, like he wants to make sure every word hits. "Sounds messy, Lena. Sounds real messy. And if this guy really is your dad's old friend, then it's worse than I thought."
Something cold crawls through my chest.
"Tom," I say again, voice thin from holding everything in. "Hang up."
He laughs once. "You should clean this up before it gets worse."
I hang up on him. My hand shakes. My breath shakes. I look at the wall, at my camera on the table, at the photos waiting to be edited, at the life I'm trying to protect, and for a moment I can't feel my legs.
15
LENA
Pick-up time at preschool is the one part of my day that never fails to fix something in me. Jace spots me from across the room and barrels forward with his backpack half open and a shoe somehow untied again. He collides with my legs and talks at full speed about a paper crown he made, a cracker he dropped, and a kid named Mason who insists carrots are evil.
"Carrots are fine," I say, brushing hair out of his face.
"No, Mama, Mason said they scream."
"Then Mason needs less TV."
He giggles and swings our joined hands all the way to the car. The drive home is loud, happy chaos. He asks what's for dinner, asks why clouds move, asks if dinosaurs ever tried pizza. By the time we reach the house, the stress buzzing under my ribs has softened, even if it hasn't gone away.
Inside, he dumps his shoes in the middle of the hallway like it is his legal right. I nudge them aside before I trip and die. He climbs onto the couch and demands a story, then pretends toread it to me even though he cannot read yet and has no shame about inventing every line.
