“Congratulations,” I say, kissing him softly. “I love this.”
He nuzzles my cheek. “After Dad and I worked it out, I had another idea. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Tell me.”
“Now that I’m running the place —” he starts the engine and pulls out — “I want you to handle the social media. Promote the Magnolia Grand on your Instagram, build us some accounts, work your magic with content. You’d be amazing at it. I’d pay you, of course. But we’d want to do a brand partnership with you, too.”
The warmth drains out of me so fast I feel the cold replace it.
We pass the bookstore. The café. The park with the majestic palm trees.
“Free advertising,” he adds. “A million and a half followers, Lauren. It would be perfect for us.”
“Free advertising.”
I turn to face the passenger window and watch the pretty homes pass by. My eyes are hot and dry.
“What do you think?” He squeezes my hand. “You in?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out flat and robotic and I can hear it but can’t seem to fix it. “I’ll think about the best approach.”
“You’re so smart about this stuff. Oh — what was your news?”
The gallery. Diana. Five photographs on a wall.
“Oh.” I wave my hand. “Just the doctor. Said I’m healing well.”
We pull into his parents’ driveway.
Dread sits in my chest like a stone.
Dinner goes smoothly. It goes so well I hate myself a little for how wonderfully I get on with his parents.
Angus is salty and wonderful, his punk rock band stories growing increasingly improbable as the evening progresses. Ginger’s lasagna is a religious experience. Max helps serve, does the dishes, teases his mother throughout in a way that makes her beam. I work hard not to look at him doing this because it’s too charming, and charm is not what I need right now.
“Tell us about your photography,” Ginger says, refilling my water.
“I studied at the Art Institute in Chicago,” I say. “I used to photograph sacred sites, places where the light does something you can’t manufacture. Before the brand work took over.” Ipause. “I’ve been thinking about getting back to that kind of work while I’m here.”
Ginger’s face lights up. “Max mentioned that too, actually. He called Diana at the gallery on Magnolia Street — do you know it? They’d love to show some of your photographs. He said five pieces to start.” She beams. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
The room goes very slightly sideways. He called the gallery. He urged the gallery to set up a show of my photographs. Without asking me. Without telling me.
He’d already been there. Already made decisions about my art. Already arranged something — well-meaning, generous, and completely without my consent. Probably as an incentive to get me to stay and help the resort’s brand.
“That’s… very thoughtful,” I hear myself say.
Max catches my eye across the table. He looks pleased.
I look away.
“Limoncello,” Angus announces. “Who’s in?”
“Me,” I say.
Max gives me a puzzled look as Angus pours.
“To Lauren,” Ginger says, lifting her glass. “And how glad we are to have her in our lives.”
