We pull apart after a long moment, both of us wiping our eyes. Then we keep walking.
“So, are you going to tell him?” she asks. “That you love him?”
I think about that with a smile. “I am. But I want to make it special.”
“Just don’t do it during sex,” she says. “Saying I love you while you’re banging someone is so tacky.”
I laugh. “No, I’d like it to be more…excuse my choice of words…romantic.”
“You’re excused. And I think you should. Make it over the top. It’s not every day that an ordinary girl gets a fairy tale ending,” she says. As silly as that sounds, everything in me wants to believe it could be true.
After I get back in my car, I sit there for a moment, smiling about the conversation we just had. Then I take my camera out of the case and stare at it, turning it over in my hands. It’s wild what cameras used to be to me and what they are now. I put it back inthe bag and set it aside on the passenger seat. Then I pull out my phone and dial a number I never thought I’d dial.
Honestly, I don’t expect her to answer. I expect voicemail or for Prudy to answer or–
“Ashlyn,” Deborah’s voice comes through the phone, and for a second, I freeze. “Tell me you have good news. Or better yet, photos.”
“I do have good news,” I tell her.
“Thank goodness,”
“But I’m afraid it’s not going to be good news for you.”
“What are you talking about?” she snaps.
“I’m talking about you asking me to betray Zane’s trust,” I answer.
“And? That’s what you do. You’re a paparazzi photog–”
“No. You’re wrong,” I cut her off. “That’s what you do. But I’m not doing it. Not anymore. I never wanted to work in paparazzi. I wanted to work in celebrity journalism. But you didn’t think I could do that.”
“Of course I didn’t think you could do it. You can’t get simple photos of a man you are literally sharing a shower with,” she says.
“You see, that’s the thing, Deborah. That’s not photography. And it’s definitely not art. It’s an infringement on people’s privacy. You do know that’s what celebrities are, right? People? And you might be able to sleep at night knowing that you’re ruining people’s lives, but I’m not,” I say, taking a silent breath in after letting it all out.
“Art? Whoever said anything about art?” she scoffs. “Art doesn’t make money, darling. But you wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Maybe not. But I’m good never finding out.”
“What are you saying exactly?” she asks, and I can literally hear in her voice that her eyes are narrowed.
“I’m saying…that I quit,” I say. “That’s it, Deborah. You can have the camera back because I quit.”
“You bet your amateur ass I get the camera back. Overnight it to me. I’ll get my photos one way or another,” she hisses, and the line goes dead.
For a moment, I just sit there, breathing like I just swam twenty laps in Zane’s pool. Then I laugh a high-pitched, crazy laugh. Because I did it. I’m done. And while I have no plan for what I’m going to do next, I’ve never felt so sure of my life.
Chapter 33
Zane
“Old fashioned, rye,”I say as soon as I pull up a stool next to Cal at the bar.
“Whoa. Don’t you have a shoot coming up for that cologne company?” he asks.
“I do,” I answer.
“And doesn’t whiskey make you bloated?” he asks.
