TWENTY-ONE
Lauren
My thumbs feel like icicles as I text my father. I’m waiting for Max to pick me up outside the resort’s front door.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in the States. Not coming to Ohio. Broke my ankle and am not too mobile at the moment. Staying here in Florida with Kate.
He responds immediately.
Sorry to hear that. Any chance you could send us a little something? Things are tight. Your mother’s not been well. Saw your posts from Italy and figured those brands must have paid well.
I stare at the screen and sigh. The familiar heaviness settles in — not quite anger, more like a deep and tired recognition. This is the pattern. It has always been the pattern.
I won’t be sending money, Dad. Let’s talk on the phone if you want to have a real conversation.
I put the phone in my bag and breathe.
I’m waiting outside the resort for Max to pick me up; he’s been in town at a bank meeting. We’re having dinner at his parents’ house tonight and I’ve been anxious about it all day in a way that’s entirely new for me. In years of dating I’ve never reached the stage where someone’s parents wanted to have dinner with me. This feels significant in a way I’m not ready to examine.
My phone chimes.
It’s Gio. “Tesoro, we’re having the most fabulous party next week at the Villa. A new sparkling water brand — very spiritual! I’d love for you to come.”
Then six brand emails in a row. A vitamin supplement shaped like a crystal. Leggings that promise to “align your chakras.” A line of aura-cleansing candles. For dogs.
I snort out loud.
My phone rings — why all this activity now, of all nights — and it’s a Cypress Grove number I don’t recognize. I answer.
A woman named Diana introduces herself as the owner of a gallery on Magnolia Street. She’s been hearing about my photography, she says. She’d love to show some of my work
“Five pieces to start, a small feature. Would you be willing to come in and discuss it?”
“Absolutely,” I say quickly before I’ve thought it through.
After I hang up I sit for a moment, a warmth spreading through my chest, quick and real. A gallery. An actual gallery, asking for my real photographs. Not a campaign. Not apartnership. My work. This instantly boosts my mood after Dad’s text.
I can’t wait to tell Max.
His SUV pulls up. He steps out in jeans and a white linen shirt and I feel my whole body orient toward him like a compass finding north.
“You’re down here early,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “I figured I’d have to come up to your room.”
“Needed some air.” I press a kiss to his jaw. “You smell good.”
“Ready for Angus and Ginger?” He opens my door for me and I slide in. He settles into the driver’s seat and doesn’t start the car.
“I have some news,” he says.
My mood lifts even higher. “I do too.”
“You first.”
“No, you.”
He leans over the middle console and rubs his nose against mine — something he does, this small sweet thing.
“We signed the legal papers today. Natalia and I are going to run the resort. I’m staying in Cypress Grove.” He cups my face lightly.
