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I didn’t know if that was Delia’s intention, but I had a feeling she didn’t do or say anything without reason.
With the camera clutched in my grasp, I headed out of her office with my shoulders back, head up, and determination in my steps. It was time for me to step up to the plate. I might swing and miss, or I might hit it out of the park.
But I’d never know until I tried.
It was rally cap time.
EPILOGUE
BLAKE
THREE YEARS LATER
Hanging up the last photo to dry, I stepped back and gazed at the images as they materialized on the film. The day Delia gave me her old camera, a passion unfurled within me. Neither of us had known the significance of that moment at that time, but it was one I’d be forever grateful for.
I’d upgraded to a DSLR camera that I used for most things, but there was something therapeutic and organic about developing film that I enjoyed. I pulled out that old camera—now with a new sunflower strap—at least once a week and took stock of the things around me.
Delia had been right about how much I enjoyed seeing things from a different perspective. It opened my eyes to a whole new world, where I saw the entire frame and not just the plays in front of me.
Baseball and photography metaphor for the win.
Stepping out of the darkroom—a converted closet that Aunt Lola and Calliope had made for me—I walked to the sliding door. The weather here was always perfect, and I took a deep breath of the salty air as it blew in off the coast. Wind chimes jingled in the background, and I rested back in the hammock swing to stare at the sky. Life was so peaceful here.
I hadn’t meant to stay in Greece this long, but each time I thought about returning to Ohio, I’d get a pit in the bottom of my stomach and find some excuse to stay.
The first year was to finish therapy and explore the world around me, which my parents had accepted without too much fuss. I went with Emory to Paris and met the most fascinating individuals. We danced, laughed, and kissed a few boys from Paris to Madrid, and I’d never felt so carefree.
There was a little health scare midway through that year, and my parents almost demanded I return home, but Aunt Lola had calmed them down, and I showed myself I could be sick without falling back into my “helpless” pattern.
That was one of those things I’d learned in therapy, too. Along with my gratitude shackles, I believed that people only wanted to be around me when they could take care of me. This led to me giving control of my life and letting everyone else make the decisions for me, always rescuing me.
I’d come to accept it was a main component of why I’d dated Brandon. Not only had my mom adored him, but he was a natural leader. He replaced my parents by making decisions for me, allowing me never to think for myself or be responsible. I realized how easily I could be manipulated if I continued on that path, leading me to darker and more dangerous territory. I was grateful that even though Brandon wasn’t the guy for me, he’d been a good man. A little boring, perhaps, but he hadn’t been abusive or controlling. And I’d forgiven him for the whole cake topper thing.
There was a moment in year two when I nearly caved. Hawk was injured, ending his baseball career, and I ached to console him, to make sure he was okay. But my heart didn’t feel strong enough yet, so I sent him care packages and got updates from Bryce when I could. We were still radio silent, not even a text in two years, but I hoped he knew I cared.
After his recovery, Dad offered him a coaching job with the Yellowjackets, and he’d taken it, putting him and Bryce back on the same team again. I was happy for him, even if it still hurt to think about the chance we never got.
A butterfly landed on my knee, tickling the skin and distracting me from memory road. Smiling, I reached for my phone to snap it. Uploading it to my social media account, I scrolled through all the images I’d added over the years, landing on a picture of a cute guy helping a little girl kick a ball—the reason I’d stayed the next year.
I’d been offered a position taking pictures for the local sports teams, and I hadn’t wanted to leave yet. I enjoyed finding new ways to use a skill I was passionate about. There might’ve also been the hot coach I was dating that influenced my decision. It didn’t last long, but it was nice to date someone that wasn’t Brandon. And while the sex had been nice, it was nowhere near my time with Hawk, and I wondered if I’d been reverse cursed—never to experience an orgasm not by my own hands again.
I’d thought about returning after my contract ended and my relationship fluttered out, but I heard through the gossip grapevine that Hawk was seeing someone, and the pain that lanced my heart was so intense that I knew I still couldn’t face him. Again, I was glad he was moving forward in his life, but it still hurt to know I wouldn’t be in it.
The patio door opened, and I lazily turned my head toward the sound. Emory bounded over, her light brown hair flying around her. She had on one of the shirts I’d made her that said, “Sunshine mixed with a little hurricane.” Nothing had ever seemed more perfect than that statement. That had been another therapy project I’d uncovered. Delia had encouraged me to expand my pins into shirts, giving me something to focus on and finding funny ways to say the things I was often too bashful to utter.
Emory smiled when she spotted me in the hammock and raced over to join me, jostling me as she made herself comfortable.
“Lake, my beautiful friend, how are you today?” Emory beamed, crossing one long leg over the other, her tan skin on display. She was effortlessly beautiful, a true free spirit, and a lover of anything fun.
“I’m good. Just finished developing that last roll of film.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to see your newest masterpieces. Are you putting any of them up in the gallery?”
At the end of last year, I submitted a photo to a contest per Emory’s insistence and was completely surprised when I won. A gallery owner had seen my image and contacted me, interested in buying prints to showcase. It felt weird to sell my photos, though. They were a part of me, and it was odd to think they’d be out there in the world on other people’s walls.
Emory said I had a case of imposter syndrome and needed to embrace my talent. So I sucked it up and submitted a few, completely flabbergasted when they sold within a week. The owner told me to send whatever I had whenever, and they would showcase them. It was nice, but I enjoyed doing sports photography the most.
It had taken me a while to accept it, but once I did, I knew it was how I could relate to my family and do something I loved. I wasn’t sure what it would look like long-term, but I had faith there was a way.
