I blink. My own eyes are doing something suspicious. “You cried?”
“Sobbed. Levi had to bring me tissues. I went through an entire box.”
“She’s not exaggerating,” Levi confirms. “I bought stock in Kleenex after that.”
“I want that,” Delilah says. “Someone who sees love like that. Who captures it like it’s the most important thing in the world. Because for me, it is.”
My throat is tight. My eyes are definitely not cooperating with my attempt to be professional and cool about this. Professional photographers don’t cry when they’re offered jobs. They say things like “I’d love to discuss my packages” and “let me send you my rate sheet.”
I am not that kind of photographer. I am a woman sitting on the steps of a leaky houseboat in yesterday’s sundress, trying not to ugly-cry while a rock star and a florist offer me the job of a lifetime.
“Yes,” I manage. “A thousand times yes.”
Delilah lets out a sound that’s half-squeal, half-laugh and pulls me into a hug that smells like gardenias and joy. Levi stands there looking pleased withhimself, which seems to be his default state when Delilah is happy.
“There’s one more thing,” Delilah says, pulling back. “The budget.”
“Whatever your budget is, I can work with it. I’m flexible. I can?—”
“Emma.” She glances at Levi, who nods. “Money isn’t a factor. We want you to have everything you need—equipment, assistants, travel, whatever it takes. Levi wants to make sure you’re taken care of.”
“More than taken care of,” Levi adds quietly. “You’re family. This isn’t a transaction.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
The number Delilah says next makes my vision blur.
That’s not a photography fee. That’s a down payment on a house. Jenna’s college tuition and the kind of money that means I stop lying awake at three a.m. doing math in my head, trying to figure out how to stretch a child support check and a wedding photography season across an entire year of groceries and boat repairs and three growing kids who need new shoes every four months.
My hands start to shake. I press them flat against my thighs, but it doesn't help—the trembling moves up my arms, settles somewhere in my chest.This isn't just money. This is Jenna not having to babysit every weekend for spending money. Aidan's baseball cleats that aren't two sizes too small. Millie's art supplies that aren't dollar-store knockoffs. This is me not having to choose between fixing the water heater and buying groceries the same week. It's the first time since Matt left that I can picture a future where I'm not constantly drowning, where my kids don't have to pretend they don't notice me skipping dinner so there's enough for seconds.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” Delilah says gently, reading my face. “Take some time to?—”
“I already said yes.” My voice cracks, and I don’t even care. “I said yes and I meant it, and you’re not allowed to take it back.”
She and Levi laugh, and I join in and it’s the kind of moment I want to photograph except I can’t because I’m living it.
And then a shadow falls across the dock.
“What’s going on?”
Paul. Of course. Standing at the end of the dock with his arms crossed and his mildly aggravated face firmly in place, which, to be fair, is also his curious face and his concerned face because the man has one expression and he’s committed to it.
“Paul!” Delilah spins around with the energy ofsomeone who’s about to ruin his entire week. “Perfect timing.”
“For what?”
“We have some news.”
“I don’t like news.”
“You’re going to love this.”
“I have never loved news.”
Delilah ignores this completely and delivers the summary: Wedding. Yacht. Here. At his marina. Celebrity event. Dock space needed. It’ll be beautiful. He’ll barely notice.
Paul’s face goes through approximately fourteen stages of reaction, none of which are excitement. Horror. Denial. A brief flicker of what might be interest when Levi mentions the docking fee. Then right back to horror.
