Claire once climbed onto a catering cart and covered herself with napkins because a photographer appeared near the elevators.
No one had asked her to.
She had simply committed to the moment.
We ate in restaurants with terrible lighting because nobody carried a telephoto lens into places with laminated menus.
We drove instead of flying whenever my schedule allowed.
We stayed in motels where the artwork was bolted to the wall and the continental breakfast consisted of coffee, cereal, and one banana that appeared to have survived several administrations.
It was inconvenient.
It was also ours.
We kept to the quieter side streets.
Claire removed the sunglasses.
“Better?”
“Now you only look like you escaped an awards show.”
“I did.”
“You weren’t invited.”
“I was invited by you.”
“Officially, you were invited by Rachel as part of the styling team.”
Claire stopped walking.
“You told me I was your date.”
“You were.”
“Then why did my badge say wardrobe?”
“Because Sophie printed it.”
“It also said assistant.”
“You assisted me.”
“With what?”
“Not leaving.”
Claire smiled.
“That was emotional styling.”
The diner appeared at the corner, all fluorescent light and red vinyl booths.
A handwritten sign in the window advertisedPANCAKES ALL NIGHT.
Claire pressed a hand to her heart.
