“Yeah?” I ask, desperate for her words.
“Everything is falling apart.”
There’s a crack in the usual hard cadence of her tone and the softness rips me in two. I hate that I’ve put her in this situation. I hate that I’ve caused her pain. And more than that I hate that I can’t be the one to take it away.
She takes a breath, readying her words, and I wait for retribution.
“I let someone else drag me into this career because I thought they cared about me, that they wanted what was best for me, that they’d be my support system. And now, I’m stuck fighting for a reputation I don’t know if I even want. And I really thought this week could fix everything. And now ... I feel like I should give up.”
As I’ve gotten to know her, Mira has confessed minor irritations about her job, but I had no idea that she was struggling. This omission makes me want to stand up, crawl into her bunk, slip my arms around her, and assure her that everything will be okay. But I keep my hands at my sides, gripping the fabric underneath me.
“Think of all the great moments you’ve immortalized with your art. Those memories matter to people.”
I think back to her page. The way her photos inspire emotion in anyone who views them, whether they know the subjects or not. As someone who’s seen a lot of flat images in his life, I know how special Mira’s gift is.
“That’s the thing ... without my camera, I’m nothing to these people. And now that it’s gone, what use am I now?”
“Mira. Don’t say that,” I whisper, hating that she’s been silently battling these feelings. That I might have exacerbated her anxiety.
“I’m going to have to tell Meredith I can’t shoot her wedding.” She’s crying now, her voice breaking into fragmented pieces, and I can’t let her suffer alone. Scooting out of the bunk, I step on the bedframe, resting my arms against the guardrail so that we’re eye-level. She’s cradling her pillow, her mascara-streaked tears leaving a black mark on the pillowcase as I reach over and smooth down her hair.
I expect her to pull away from me, to smack my hand, but she grips her pillow tighter, burying her face. “You’re going to make it through this okay,” I say, rubbing my hand over her back.
“I’m going to have to refund her money. And admit that I’m a sham. I’m going to have to get a job as a barista or a bartender. There’s still an opening at Finn’s, right?”
Her sobs grow louder, as she uses her shirt to wipe her nose.
Dismounting from my perch, I grab a pack of tissues from my welcome bag and hand them to her.
“Take these too,” I offer, giving her an aspirin and water bottle.
Her fingers graze against mine as she takes the pills, popping them between her teeth and swallowing them with a gulp of water. I wait for a moment to see if she needs anything else.
She lies back onto her pillow, but when I go to move I feel her grab my hand. I relinquish it freely, willing to give her anything she needs from me.
“I really, really liked you,” she says, her hazel eyes hazy through tears, and the squeeze of her fingers is like a vise grip around my heart.
“I really, really like you too,” I admit as I watch her eyelids close, exhaustion taking hold. I continue to stroke her back, moving in little circles, and I realize it’s the same technique my mother used on nights I couldn’t sleep, standing in the doorway until she led me back to my room. I’d forgotten that she did that. The memory opening a long-sealed door inside of me.
I wait a few minutes, repeating the gesture until Mira’s breath falls into a steady rhythm. I wish that I could crawl in beside her, hold her against me, breathe her in and let her know she’s safe here, with me, but instead I take my place underneath her.
“Hudson,” she says again, her voice just above a whisper.
“Yeah?”
“I want my secret now.”
“I’m afraid to start my new job on Monday,” I confess, the weight of my insecurities pressing against my chest. “I’m afraid that I’m going to let my dad down or ruin the company he’s built. But more than that I’m afraid that no one is going to take me seriously. That I won’t be respected. What if I don’t have the confidence it takes to actually be a CEO and that I’m only meant for the sidelines?”
The words release like a waterfall, falling in rapid succession.
“That’s why I’m in such awe of you, Mira. You’re so much like him, my dad. You turned something you love into a business, and you made this amazing career for yourself. You trust yourself enough to know that you can do it on your own. What I wouldn’t give for an ounce of that confidence,” I say. “But I’ll never knowwhat that’s like. To be my own person. To create something of my own. I’ll always be the boy with his dad’s hand-me-down.”
I wait for her response, but after a minute, when all I hear is the soft, low hum of her snoring, I know she’s asleep. I should follow in her footsteps, close my eyes, and rid myself of the day, but I’m wired, my brain buzzing. I knew that Mira took her job seriously, but I had no idea how much of her self-worth was directly correlated to it, that she thought her ability to take photos was the only reason people wanted to be around her. As if that’s all she offers the world.
I want to tell her that it’s bullshit. That she’s so much more than her job, her camera. To understand that her ability to see the world with a keen intuitiveness, to make magic out of mundane moments, to see the best of everything, is a gift ingrained in her psyche. Her camera is just the conduit. But if she needs it to feel whole, then the least I can do is get her a new one.
Quietly, I sneak out of bed, hoping to locate her ruined equipment, when Katherine barges in through the patio. The door slams behind her and she stumbles in, drunk.
