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I sigh as I turn to grab the flyer. The second I start scanning it, heat erupts on my cheeks. “Laura—”
“You don’t have to be a visual arts major to enter,” she says quickly. Of course, she preempted all my arguments. “It’s for anyone who wants to try. And it’d get your work in an actual gallery in the Village!”
I force myself to read the flyer. It’s a contest sponsored by McKee’s Visual Arts Department, offering prizes in various categories... including photography. All the finalists will win a thousand dollars and have their work displayed at the Close Gallery in the West Village, and there’s a grand prize for the set of pieces the department deems most exceptional. The amount nearly makes my jaw drop. Fivethousanddollars. That could be a huge help with the apartment rehab.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“You could use the pieces from the diner,” she says. “Or those new ones you showed me from the football practice, those were amazing. I still don’t know how you made a bunch of cold dudes running around in the snow look so good. Tell me you’ll at least try?”
I fold the flyer carefully and stick it into my planner. “Yeah. But don’t expect anything. It’s probably one of those things where they really prefer someone from the department to win it.”
“You’ve taken some classes. That one professor tried to convince you to double major!”
“It’s not the same.”
“Don’t count yourself out.”
“I won’t. I’m just—being realistic.”
I haven’t told Laura about the offer from Angelica. After I called her, which I did because I promised James I would, she called this guy named Doug Gilbert, who handles media across all McKee athletics, and he looked at the photographs I took of the practice. He was impressed, and now I have a student press badge to use if I want, provided I give any photographs to him to look over and possibly use—with payment—in promotional material for the teams.
It felt weird, like I was there because I’m James’s girlfriend, but he assured me that it wasn’t because of that. Looking at my work was a favor to Angelica, who apparently likes me a lot, but offering me the access badge was something he did because he thinks I’ll deliver good photography.
I haven’t told James yet, either; I’m planning to spill the beans on the drive down to his parents’ place. I’ve never had a secret like this to keep before, and honestly, it’s pretty fun.
But even if I do this, even if I sell some photographs to the university or enter the contest Laura just told me about, it doesn’t replace the reality of my situation.
Laura looks like she’s going to push, but I shake my head incrementally, so she backs off. “Show me what you’re going to wear to Christmas dinner. Do they cook? You know what, they probably have a chef. That’s what my parents do, especially for holidays.”
***
“James! Beckett!”
Sandra pulls both of us into a tight hug the moment she opens the door, even though we’re still bundled up in our coats on the front porch. My knit cap—the same one James knocked right off my head when he kissed me after his practice—goes askew thanks to the force of her embrace.
“Sandra,” I reply with genuine fondness. I haven’t really had a chance to speak with James’s mother, so the enthusiasm is puzzling, but welcome anyway.
Three whole days of this before we head down to Atlanta for the championship game. Despite Laura’s best efforts, I’m not at all calm about this. Christmas for me usually means pie for dinner on Christmas Eve and opening presents whileElfplays on the television, then dinner at Aunt Nicole’s. This Christmas, I may as well have gone to the moon to celebrate.
She helps me get the hat back on properly before giving Cooper and Sebastian the same treatment. “I’m glad you got down all right—was the traffic rough?”
“It’s Long Island, the traffic’s always rough,” Cooper says, his voice muffled against his mother’s hair. When she pulls back and sees his face, she gasps. The remnants of a bruise linger on his cheekbone.
“Cooper Blake Callahan,” she chides, rubbing her thumb over the bruise.
“You should see the other guy,” he says, trying for a grin.
I sneak a glance at James because we both know that’s not from hockey. Cooper and Sebastian got into a bar fight with some dudes at McNamara’s a week ago, and as far as I know, it’s on the list of things Richard Callahan is hopefully never going to find out about.
She sighs. “Do you need help bringing in your things? Richard, the kids are here!”
As we walk into the entryway of James’s parents’ house, I have to make a conscious effort not to let my jaw drop. We left McKee mid-afternoon, so it’s evening now, and it didn’t sink in, when we first pulled up to the house, just how much of a mansion it is. I’m pretty sure the entirety of Abby’s Place would fit into the entryway alone. It has one of those towering cathedral ceilings with a double staircase leading to the upper level and a chandelier overhead; in between the staircases, there’s a tree that’s at least twelve feet tall and decorated to perfection with gold and silver trinkets and lights. Sandra takes my coat and scarf. I hear her complimenting my sweater dress, but I’m too busy staring at Richard.
Even though I’ve seen him a few times now, it’s still jarring to realize that James and Cooper look so much like him. For half a second, I feel like I’m looking at my boyfriend twenty years into the future. He smiles as he takes in the sight of his wife fussing with Sebastian’s collar, but then his gaze finds mine, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
“Beckett,” he says, nodding at me as he accepts a hug from James. “How wonderful that you’ll be joining us for the holiday.”
I try to keep my smile relaxed, even though inside, I feel like bolting. That intensity that James radiates out on the field? Richard has that all the time, apparently.
