I hum.
“I was saying that you need someone who supports you in the same way you support them. You need someone who gives as much as they get.”
“I don’tneedanyone.”
“You know what else I think?” my sister asks.
“That honeydew is the superior melon?” (Ew.)
“Obviously. You could use some bravado in your life.”
I frown. “Meaning?”
“Make out with Charlie in his fast boat. Slather some sunscreen on those pectorals. Fool around in the boathouse.”
“I’ll pass.”
“Ugh. You’re hopeless. Then I’ll come make out with him.”
“You don’t date.”
“But Idohave sex. Unlike you.”
“Anyway,” I grumble. “New subject.”
“Fine. What are the details of your opening night? I need to clear my calendar and book us hair appointments. We should probably get our makeup done, too.”
I shouldn’t have told my sister about the show. She won’t shut up about it.
“I’m not going,” I say. “I’ll be up here with Nan. She needs me here.”
“Oh please.”
“Just drop it,” I say, though Heather won’t be satisfied until I’m standing in Elyse Cho Gallery, sweating through my cocktail dress.
“I will not drop it. So it’s not your favorite photo. Who cares? This is a big deal, Ali. It’s the gallery’s inaugural exhibition—there’s going to be a ton of press.”
“I care, and I’m not like you. I don’t love the spotlight in the same way.”
Lavinia is the actor, but all the Everlys crave attention. My father and Heather find it in the courtroom. Lavinia onstage. Luca behind the bar. My mom is more like me. We’re the reserved ones, the introverts.
“I do notlovethe spotlight.”
“Heather.”
“The show could open a whole new world for you,” she says. “You’re always talking about how you want to shoot artier stuff. This is an opportunity to get in front of rich people who need arty shit for their walls.”
“Arty shit?” What I don’t say is that I think I’ve made a big mistake. If people like the photo, I’m afraid Elyse will want more like it, and that buyers will, too. I’m afraid I won’t be able to say no, that I’ll find myself on the wrong road, unable to find my way back.
“I mean it as a compliment,” Heather says, then sighs. “I think you should put on your big-girl panties and one of your boring black jumpsuits, and just do it,” she says. “And Charlie while you’re at it.”
Before I turn in for the night, I scroll through the photos I’ve snapped on my phone to see if there’s anything worth sharing.
The best thing I’ve taken is a shot of Nan, looking out the window, her hands gripping either side of her walker. But I know she wouldn’t want me to post it—she hates that she needs help. There’s one of my feet in the water that I took on the island earlier today. The ripples on the surface have an interesting geometry. The tones look almost black and white. You can just make out my hair in the reflection of the lake, but you can’t see my face.
I apply my go-to filters and post it with a brief caption.Lake, June 2025. I label all my photos this way. The subject, the month, the year. I do a quick scroll of my notifications before I shut my phone off for the night, but there’s one from an hour ago that makes my heart skip.
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