“To Lauren,” Max says. “The best thing to come out of Damien and Kate’s wedding.”
I swallow the shot in one go, and am mostly silent for the next half hour. On the drive home the car is quietly awkward.
“Something is off,” Max says. “My parents loved you, so why did you go all silent?”
“The dinner was lovely.”
“Something happened.”
I fold my arms. “You asked me to handle the resort’s social media.”
“Because you’re brilliant at it —”
“And you called the gallery.”
A beat. “I — yes. Diana’s an old friend. I thought your photographs in a local gallery would be —”
“My photographs,” I say. “My work. My decision. Was that a perk of working for you?”
He goes quiet.
“You arranged a show of my art without asking me. Without telling me. You made a decision about the one thing I guard most carefully.” My voice is level and I hate how level it is. “And in the same conversation you asked me to handle the resort’s Instagram. You want my platform for free advertising.” I look at him. “Did you think about what I wanted? Or just what would work for you? Or only how I would help you and the resort?”
“I was trying to do a nice thing,” he says. The genuine confusion on his face is almost worse than if he’d known. “Both of those?—”
“I know you didn’t mean to.” I push the door open. “That’s almost the worst part.”
I get out of the car. Max stays beside me.
“I thought I was doing a good thing,” he says, and not in a nasty or argumentative way. His expression is almost clueless and that makes me profoundly sad. “Both of those things… I thought that's what we were doing. Together.”
“I know you did.” And I do know, which is why my eyes are burning. “But tonight it didn't feel that way.”
He stills. When he doesn’t speak, the words almost tumble out of my mouth.
“What if I can't give you anything? What if I stop being useful to the resort, to your plans, and there's nothing left? What do you want from me then?”
He looks at me like I've said something in a language he doesn't speak. “Lauren —”
“I'm serious. Everyone who's ever needed me needed something specific. My dad needs money. Brands need content.Tonight you need my platform and my photographs.” My voice cracks on the last word. “I don't know how to be wanted for nothing.”
“That's not —” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “That's not what this is.”
“I know,” I say. “I think I know that. I just need to think.”
I press the key card to my door.
“I don't want to lose this,” I say quietly. I'm not sure if I mean him, or Cypress Grove, or the version of myself I've been finding here. Maybe all three.
“Okay,” he says. Just that.
I close the door and hope he doesn’t see the tears.
