Ryan met her gaze. “Should you be writing?”
Skylar shook her head. “I should, but I’m not. I need a break.”
“Okay. I do need to head to town first, I need shampoo, soap, a few other things.”
“I’ll go change,” Skylar said, strolling toward the stairs. She glanced back at Ryan’s phone. “Anything?”
Ryan bit her lower lip. She shook her head, soft as a sigh. “No. Nothing.”
Skylar offered a sympathetic smile, then padded up the carpeted stairs, her footsteps muffled. Ryan watched the shadows in the hall lengthen, then gathered her purse. She wondered how her life would be without Skylar, her best friend since fifth grade, a shoulder to cry on through every heartbreak; boyfriends, fiancés, husbands. Both of them had been cheated on; both of them had dragged each other back from the edge. Skylar, with her long, glossy, golden hair and light blue eyes, turned heads everywhere she went, but to Ryan she’d always been the sweetest sister she never had.
A few minutes later they merged onto the four-lane road, the Camaro’s engine rumbling beneath them. They pulled into the fluorescent glare of the department store parking lot. Inside, Skylar steered a squeaky cart down aisle after aisle, browsing row upon row of shampoos in plastic bottles, bars of soap wrapped in pastel paper, and endless household trinkets. Ryan wandered beside her, arms crossed, shaking her head at Skylar’s impulse buys.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She fished it out and froze.
“Skylar,” she whispered, voice quaking, as she saw who the message was from. Shoulder still turning to the shelf, Skylar didn’t hear. Ryan tried again, a little louder: “Skylar!” The voice cracked, drawing stares from the other shoppers.
Skylar snapped around, brows raised, hand darting to the jewelry wheel display. “What?”
Ryan hurried across the linoleum floor and thrust her phone in Skylar’s face. The fluorescent lights glinted off Skylar’s hair as she leaned in.
“Is that from Seth?”
Ryan’s breath caught. “Yes.”
“Well, open it.”
“I’m afraid to.” Ryan’s fingers shook as she handed the phone to Skylar. “You read it.”
Skylar’s lips curved with gentle confidence. “Are you sure?”
Ryan exhaled, eyes fixed on the screen. “Yes. No.” She squared her shoulders. “I’ll do it.” Her thumb hovered, then tapped.
Skylar folded her arms, leaning back on one foot. “How about telling me what it says, today sometime?”
Ryan’s jaw clenched. She scrolled. Her frown deepened as she read.
I appreciate the photos. The guys enjoyed them.
“What’s that look for?” Skylar peered over Ryan’s shoulder, then glanced at the short message.
“Nice, huh? Does he hate me or what?” Ryan blinked, holding tears at bay.
“He doesn’t hate you. He still thinks you belong here, with us, not with him.”
Ryan shook her head. “I’m not texting back. That was so… to the point. He’s obviously not interested.”
Skylar shrugged, already steering the cart toward the checkout lanes. “I think we need more wine.”
“A case might do it,” Ryan muttered, voice low, as they unloaded their haul onto the conveyor belt. The cashier’s scanner beeped, plastic bags rustled, and the sun slanted across the parking lot as they carried their shopping out. They slid into Skylar’s car, its leather seats warmed by the sun, and pulled away, detouring to the liquor store, where they didn’t actually fill up the trunk, but they got enough to get them through today and tonight, before finally heading back to the townhouse.
The following week seemed to fly by and soon, it was another Friday. The soft light filtered through the high windows as Ryan stepped into the magazine’s open-plan office. Her heels clicked against the polished floor, a gentle echo in the hush before the workday mania. At her desk, she eased open the bottom drawer and tucked her purse out of sight, its leather clasp clicking as she locked the drawer with a twist. She tugged her chair toward her, the back sighing as it shifted, then settled in and nudged the seat closer until she could feel the cool edge of her keyboard beneath her palms. A soft hum rose as the computer whirred to life.
A new message alert chimed, and Ryan leaned forward to open an email from Doris. The glow of the screen highlighted her smile. Doris adored the idea of an in-depth feature on Clifton, Montana. Even better, she’d already reserved a room at the local B and B for next summer. She told Ryan she lucked out becausesomeone cancelled a reservation. Ryan’s heart warmed at the thought, she tapped out a reply, telling Doris she’d fallen in love with Clifton’s rolling wheat fields and quaint town herself. She hit Send and watched the email disappear.
Turning to her next task, Ryan pulled up the folder of photos she’d captured the last week she was in Clifton. Amber stalks of oats waved in the breeze, and cornfields stretched beneath a cloudless sky. She selected her favorite shots and composed a quick note to Isadora, the photo editor, requesting her input on pairing images with the story’s sections. Soon, the two of them and the design team would gather in the light-drenched conference room, sorting through shots, fine-tuning colors, retouching blemishes, and sharpening each pixel until every kernel and leaf gleamed on the printed page.
When the art director joined them, they’d clustered around the long table, murmuring over tablets and printouts. Together with Doris, they’d examined the selection down to a half dozen images, each one chosen to guide readers through Seth’s golden fields and rolling pastures of livestock feed, weaving a visual journey that matched Doris’s words.
