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My stomach tumbles like a dryer full of shoes while I read the paragraphs that accompany the images. It’s what Angela said it would be. A fluffy piece that gives moms a look into the options of infant photography and how my studio operates. A squeal leaps out of me at the sight of my studio phone number and address listed at the end of the article.
I take a picture of the pages with my phone and send it to Tori and Mom.
My phone rattles almost instantly with both of their replies.
Tori
Ahhhh! Fuck yeah, girl!
Mom
I’m in tears. You deserve this so much. Congratulations, honey.
I’m going to be drowning in appointments. Glancing around my studio, I’m suddenly struck by how surreal it is that this worked out. That despite everything that’s happened, my business isn’t only surviving, it’s thriving. Did Alden have any idea what he did for me when he bought this building? He gave me a purpose.
The envelope of magazines goes with me after I lock up my studio. The florist is my next stop. Then I head to the cemetery. It’s been a few weeks since I’ve gone to visit Alden. I try not to feel guilty about that. Like Tori said, he can’t hear me or care what I do. Sitting by his headstone and filling him in about everything he’s missed is more for my benefit. Truthfully, it’s hard when it feels like I’m leaving out the one thing I can’t say aloud. Hey Den, I love you and miss you but by the way I fucked your brother.
The weather is raw and windy. An occasional sprinkle adds to the chill. “Hi Den,” I mumble, squatting near the shiny black stone. I swipe the dirt that’s gathered in a few of the grooves of his name away with my fingers. “I made it through Thanksgiving without you. Two more holidays to go.”
The flowers get tucked into the vase embedded in the ground. “Things are hard. I miss the fuck out of you, but something good happened. Look.”
I pull out the magazine and prop it against the stone. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about getting enough clients after this. My dream job came through just like yours did. Thank you so much, Den. I never could’ve done this without you. You didn’t only give me a head start with the building, you believed in me.”
I talk for a few more minutes, about his shop and his friends. Never about Oliver and what’s going on with him. As if I could keep the bad news from him. It’s ridiculous, but I’m coping. My face is numb by the time I go, leaving the magazine beside the headstone.
My next stop is Stokes Brothers. It’s after hours and everything is closed up. Oliver isn’t home, so I let myself inside and leave the magazine tucked into his door. He said he wanted to see it when it came out. I’m tempted to text him, but I don’t. We haven’t seen each other in the week since Thanksgiving, and I’m doing my best to get accustomed to being alone again.
I’m home and finishing up dinner when Tori texts me with a link to one of Modern Motherhood’s social media accounts. It’s followed by a phone call and her excited voice in my ear. “They’ve already posted about you and the article is live on their website!”
“You’re kidding!” I click the link and there it is, a post promoting the new issue due out tomorrow.
“You look amazing too! That’s a great picture of you. We need a night out to celebrate. Next Saturday? I have to go to Paul’s friend’s house this weekend.”
“That sounds great.”
Tori and I spend half an hour on the phone while I share the post and reply to comments. I’ve never cared to have any personal social media, but you can’t run a business without an online presence.
Within an hour of the post, my business page and website are getting hits. It’s amazing how fast things happen. When I lie down to go to bed, I feel something that it takes me a moment to even recognize because it’s been so long. I’m happy.
I’m up early the next day and in my studio first thing, but there are already voicemail messages waiting for me. My email also has requests for appointments. I’m glad that I don’t have any afternoon appointments scheduled today—I usually leave Friday afternoons open—because it takes me quite a while to go through all the requests. By late afternoon, I’m already booked for the next two months and have had to start a cancellation waitlist. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours since they posted the article.
The little bell dings above my door and I look up from my laptop to see Oliver stroll in. He’s dressed in dark jeans, and his forest green sweater clings to his biceps and chest, giving him a sexy, warm look. God, he looks good.
“Hi, what are you doing here?” I call, coming out from around my desk.
He smiles and holds up a Modern Motherhood magazine. “I heard the talented owner here is famous and I was hoping for an autograph.”
“Stop it,” I laugh, hugging him.
He plunks the magazine down on the counter, raises his eyebrows and holds up a marker.
“You’re ridiculous,” I giggle, scribbling my name in the corner of the cover.
“Can I take you out to dinner to celebrate? If you don’t have any plans?”
“Tonight?”
“Right now if you’re done for the day,” he replies with a shrug.
