But something about that setup feels like most everything else in my life—lonely. It feels like there’s no potential for laughs or long conversations about where the best spot is to put the window seat that I’ve wanted since the third grade or which direction my bedroom should face so that I can see the sun rise from my bed.
Even though Wade certainly has the potential to be a pain in the ass, working with him at least seems … exciting. It gets my blood pumping—even if it’s for the wrong reasons.
“Sorry,” Rusti says, coming into the room. “You’d think the guy who owns the damn place would know where things are. He should pay me more.”
“Yes, he should. Want me to come by tonight and tell him that?”
She grins. “No, but thank you for the offer.”
“Anytime.”
“I need to get down there before they just call me again looking for something else. It would totally help if the day shift stocked everything like they’re supposed to.”
I grin. “Want me to come tell them that?”
Rusti laughs. “So, are we working with Catnip?”
“We don’t know.”
“Figures. But I vote yes if for nothing else so I can meet him.” She picks up her bag off the floor next to the sofa. “What are you doing this weekend? Want to go to Xavier Park and help me walk Cleo? We could grab a sandwich and people watch after.”
I fake cry.
“Come on,” she says. “Cleo loves you.”
“Cleo peed on me the last time she saw me. She’s a menace.”
“She’s sweet.” Rusti gives me a look as she makes her way to the door. “So, yes to Xavier Park on Saturday afternoon?”
I rearrange the pillows we knocked over earlier. “I have a quick photo session in the morning, but I can meet you around one. I vote without your Jack Russell terrier, but I’ll be there regardless.”
She pulls the door open. “Perfect. See you then unless you come by tonight.”
“I’ll let you know about that. I might be in bed by the time it’s officially tonight.”
“In bed with visions of a hot architect …?”
Laughing, I pick up a pillow and toss it at her. It hits the back of the door as it swings shut.
While the house feels distinctly quiet without Rusti, my head is unmistakably loud.
Every clashing, thorny emotion that swirls inside me on a daily basis picks up speed. It’s as if my feelings have seats on a Ferris wheel, and I have to wait and see which one will get off and take precedence this time.
Because they all exist. They all matter. They’re all relevant.
“I just wish you were here to help me work through this, Mom.”
I give myself a minute to miss her, to mourn the loss that blindsided me over a year ago. To grieve the loss of the only person who ever loved me for me without expecting anything in return.
And then, because I’m my mother’s daughter, I pick myself up and dust myself off. I might not know what to do with so many things in my life—well, apart from my photography business—but I’ll figure it out.
But will I figure it out by calling Wade Mason’s office or letting him come to me?
I shrug, a smile playing on my lips, and head to my office to edit pictures.
THREE
WADE
I set my fork and knife on my plate and carry them into the kitchen.
The last rays of sun pour through the window over the sink—the one that looks over the field that stretches more than two acres to the east. It’s filled with grasses and trees with leaves that hint of the color eruption that’s not too far away.
My doorbell buzzes. I look across the island and into the family room. A small box appears in the corner of the television screen that hangs over the fireplace. It shows my mother entering the security code and opening the door.
“Wade? Are you home?” she calls out.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
Her heels patter against the hardwood floors. I take out an extra wineglass and carry it to the table.
Siggy Mason is a force to be reckoned with. She’s fascinated me since I was a little boy. The way she tailored her parenting style to each of her five children yet remained neutral and fair was impressive.
“What a day, what a day,” she says, plopping her oversized bag in an empty chair at the table. She nods when I hold up the bottle of wine. “I hope your day was more productive than mine.”
“Actually, it was not.” I hand the glass to her. “And you can blame your children for that.”
She furrows her brow. “Boone?”
I snort as she sips her wine. Once she’s finished, she sighs.
“I had a class with your father this morning,” she says, sitting at the table. “Then a last-second meeting with a retail chain that’s interested in carrying my jewelry in their stores.”