"I know."
"So let's start with Saturday." She takes a breath. "And see where Sunday goes."
I turn my head toward her bed. I can barely see her outline in the dark, but I know she's facing me.
"Yeah," I say. "Okay."
Neither of us says anything else.
I lie there for a long time, staring at the silhouette of the clothing rack, at the bed three feet away where she's lying in the dark.
We're closer than we were this morning.
With the rack still between us.
And part of me is relieved it’s there.
Chapter thirty-five
Sam
Pre-dawn light creeps through the curtains, gray and thin. I've been awake for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, listening to Tom breathe, five feet away. The clothing rack still stands between us. Neither of us moved it before we went to sleep.
You're perfect.
He said it like he meant it. And then he hid the picture. Wouldn't let me see it.
I wish I knew why.
"You awake?"
Tom's voice breaks the quiet. I turn my head, but I can't see him past the wall of fabric.
"Yeah."
"What are you thinking about?"
I could deflect. I could say "the gala" or "work" or "nothing." I don't.
"The photoshoot. You taking pictures of me."
The silence stretches. I count three breaths before he speaks again.
"I was thinking about that too."
"The gala or the photoshoot?"
"That photo I took of you. The one at the ocean."
My pulse kicks up. I press my palms flat against the mattress.
"What about it?"
"It's my favorite thing I've ever shot."
"Tom—"
"Just wanted you to know."
