“…Sloane Michaels, with a stunning image aptly titledValkyrie, to be revealed at the awards gala. Congratulations to the winners and to everyone who submitted. You are all supremely talented and didn’t make this easy for the judges. Details on the ceremony to be held next month in Los Angeles will be emailed out in the next forty-eight hours. Thanks for joining us!”
My phone starts ringing and doesn’t stop. I’m too stunned to answer, frozen in the middle of my office and staring at what is now a blank window where the live stream once was.
I won.
I’m going to be on the cover ofNature Shots. This time, when the numbness cracks, there’s no stopping the tears that flood down my cheeks.
Wes is the person whose voice I want to hear most right now. He’s the one I want to celebrate this moment with. He’sthe one I want to hear whisper in that low bedroom voiceI’m so proud of you, darlin’.
But Wes isn’t here.
My phone continues to light up with a flood of incoming texts. I didn’t realize how invested the overall chasing community was in this contest—every chaser I know in possession of my phone number sends well wishes and joking complaints that I’ve been hiding a stunning image.
I’m in too much of a daze to wonder why my brothers are bothering to knock when I hear someone at my front door, never mind why they’re two hours early for dinner. I pull the door open and blink at the sight that awaits me. Then I blink again, certain I’ve hallucinated the enormous bouquet of flowers dwarfing the delivery guy.
He peers out from behind the blooms, juggling a clipboard. “Sloane Michaels?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to sign for these.” A glass vase is thrust into my hands. “Careful, it’s heavy.”
I eye the bouquet, a mix of roses and peonies and calla lilies all in deep shades of pink that too closely match the dress in my cover photo—my cover photo!—to be coincidence. It must have cost a small fortune to get them to my doorstep within an hour of the announcement.
EitherNature Shotshas a hell of a publicist working overtime, or…
“Who are they from?” I croak.
The delivery guy shrugs. “Not my department. Mind signing? Got a few more deliveries to make.”
“Right, yes, of course.” I barely manage to scribble my name on the electronic pad without dropping anything. Then it’s just me and the emotional landmine of a bouquet.
I bring the vase into the kitchen and set it on the counter before eyeing it with trepidation. There’s a card tucked into the middle of the blooms, the small envelope a pale pink taunt as my kitchen fills with a delicious floral scent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scold myself after a few minutes of silent standoff with the flowers. I pluck the card out and quickly rip it open, determined to get this over with.
I’m so proud of you. I miss you.
I slap my palm over my mouth to stifle the sob that breaks free. It’s what I wanted to hear, but the impersonal serif font just emphasizes the current chasm between us.
I trace my fingertip over the slant of theWbeneath the short message and struggle to keep breathing as longing slams into me. Burying my face in the flowers, I take a deep breath of their sweet scent. My emotions are all over the place. Anything I decide now will be a knee-jerk reaction. I debate sending Tracy a photo of the bouquet for advice, but she just won too. Better to let her celebrate in peace without my relationship drama.
Wes and I will both be in Los Angeles in a couple of weeks for the gala. If I’m going to let him back into my life, into my heart, I need to be certain it’s the right choice, not an emotional reaction in an emotional moment.
Today, I start small. First by digging the pink dress out of my closet and promptly dropping it off at the dry cleaner. Andthen, once I’m home and have changed my mind so many times I’m sick of thinking about it, I send a simple text.
Thank you for the flowers.
It’s a pretty half-assed olive branch. Wes replies in less than a minute anyway.
I’m glad you like them.And then, barely thirty seconds later,I’m sorry, Sloane. You were right about all of it. I didn’t stop to think about my actions or how they would make you feel. I won’t make excuses. I should have listened and respected your decision.
And then, a few seconds after that,I miss you so fucking much.
I give myself a minute to consider my response. I miss Wes, but I’m not ready to open that door. Not when I’m expecting my brothers in half an hour. Not with the high of my win still racing through my veins. But for the first time since I opened that email, I’m no longer as certain as I once was that what Wes did is truly unforgivable.
I take a deep, shaky breath and reply,Let’s talk when we’re both in LA. Congrats on your shot too.
The typing bubble appears and disappears too many times to count. I chew my lip while I watch, knowing I should put my phone down and do something else before the guilt and want and anxiety win. Instead I stay right where I am until Wes finally sends back,I’m not trying to make excuses, but there are things I should have told you earlier. I can wait until we’re in LA, but I would like the chance to explain.
