Smiling, I let her lead me downstairs, my heart feeling lighter.
Her words stick with me.
Do I fight for Noah or walk away?
EIGHTEEN
Ihaven’t seen Mackie in a few days. We’ve been texting and calling nonstop, but I miss his face. He seemed down the other day, but he’s back to his chipper self today, which is good.
I’m distracted by thoughts of him, my camera against my chest, when someone sneaks up and tries to grab a cookie from my desk. “These look so good—” I slap their hand, making them yelp, and retract it as I turn.
Ben, I should have known. “Jeez, boss,” he grumbles.
“They are mine. Don’t touch,” I scold. Mackie made them for me, not anyone else. I won’t share.
Ben rolls his eyes but nods. “Alright then, I came to tell you the client is ready. Are you?”
“Sure, I’m on my way.” Pulling my phone out, I shoot off a text to tell Mackie I’ll be busy for a few hours so he doesn’t wonder why I’m not replying, and then I take a deep breath and force myself into work mode, ready to shoot the model.
My keys jangle in the lock, and once I push through my front door, I stop. The lights are off since I was out and there’s no one to keep them on for me. That’s a little thing I miss, coming home to a warm house and welcoming smile. It no longer feels like a home, just a place to rest my head.
Sighing, I kick the door shut behind me, drop my keys into the bowl, and leave my shoes and bag on the floor to clean up later. “Lights on,” I call. They instantly turn on and I wince. “Ambient lighting,” I correct, and the main lights turn off, leaving the floor lighting and lamps on instead. Moving down the corridor, I pass the modern boho living room to my left and head to my state-of-the-art kitchen, which rarely gets used anymore.
I lean against the bar and consider cooking, but I have no energy left after work. It was a long day. The model we had was a total nightmare. I’d prefer new, inexperienced models to her. She was a total diva and made us all wait until she was ready—two hours later than we were supposed to start—and then she couldn’t even hit her marks. I would never say it, but I think she was on something as well, and it made her eyes look glazed. Photos are all about emotion and expression, and the eyes are the way to capture it. You don’t even need a fancy pose, just a simple look into the eyes, but hers were dead. We had to work overtime to get usable photos ready, since it was apparently our fault.
Exhaustion weighs heavily on me, not just the physical kind but the mental. It doesn’t help that my house is so silent. Every trace of who I was back then is gone, as is every trace of him. I can’t even recall the sound of his laughter anymore.
It’s cold, empty, and lonely, just like me.
Sometimes it’s easy to forget, but other times grief hits me like a hammer.
Needing a distraction from my spiraling thoughts, I pull out my phone, hoping for something to do.
I navigate to my photo album, and a real smile curves my lips as I see the last photo I took. I take them for a living, but my phone is reserved for things that truly deserve to be there, like him. He’s asleepon my sofa in my office. He looks so peaceful, and looking at him comforts me out of the terrible mood I’m in.
I find his number and hit call, waiting anxiously. I need his infectious happiness so I don’t feel so alone in this big, empty house.
Nerves fill me, and I rap my knuckle on the counter as I wait. It’s late, so he might be asleep or—the screen goes from his name to his face, and it’s like I can breathe again, drawing in a full breath just like I did when I saw him for the first time.
“Hey, are you finally home?” he asks with a soft smile. His cheek is pressed against his couch—I know the color of the cushion—and his other hand holds up the phone. His eyes sparkle in the dim light, and I just stare at the life and happiness he exudes.
“Hmm,” I finally respond, swallowing around my emotions. “Sorry, were you asleep?”
“Nah, I was just aimlessly scrolling. Have you eaten yet?” His concern makes my eyebrows untighten and my lips curl up.
“Not yet,” I answer.
“Conan . . .” He sighs. “Want me to order you something?”
“No, I think I’ll cook. Will you keep me company?” I ask.
“Sure,” he replies. “What are you going to make?”
Taking him with me, I open the fridge and peer inside, and he laughs. “With whatever ingredients you have there, probably not much.”
“I’m not home a lot,” I tell him, feeling a tad ashamed by how bare my kitchen is.
“I’ll let you off. Why don’t you make pasta? Do you have pasta?” he teases.
