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“Great use of white space,” Janet says as she floats by, her shawl fluttering slightly.
Laura bites back a giggle. “See? Great use of white space. Fabulous.”
I release a shaky breath. “Well, it’s how I want it.”
“Good.” She takes a few steps back and whips her phone out. “Smile, let me take your picture.”
I flush, looking around the gallery. The other contest finalists are working on their own displays, and it’s clear that most of them know each other, because they keep socializing, walking over toeach other’s spaces to offer feedback and compliments. They’ve been ignoring me, which is fine, but it doesn’t mean I’m not a little self-conscious.
The semester is in full swing again, which means wrapping up my major requirements, enjoying one more semester of living with Laura, spending time with James, who wasn’t suspended for the fight once the school heard my report about Darryl, and scaling back my shifts at the Purple Kettle so I can photograph some of the McKee hockey games.
This gallery show, the opportunity to work more on my sports photography—it’s bumping up against the diner in uncomfortable ways, and despite telling James I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure what to do. Before this year, even the thought of leaving my mother alone to deal with the diner was impossible. I promised her I wouldn’t, and I always intended to stick to my word. Now? I come closer to wanting to leave every day, but I don’t know if I can trust her with the business. She’s been more involved lately, but I’m still there most days of the week, putting out (metaphorical) fires and making sure things run smoothly. I wouldn’t be able to do that from San Francisco, which is where James will end up, if the latest rumors coming out of the NFL are to be believed.
“You look so pretty,” Laura gushes. She shows me the photograph. Honestly, I think I look super stressed, but maybe that’s just because it’s how I feel. In less than an hour, a whole bunch of people are going to be looking at my photography while I’m standing right next to the display. I’m going to hear their opinions. And with a little luck, I’ll win five thousand dollars, although the painter across the room from me is seriously talented, so if I had to give the prize to someone, I would choose them.
“I guess so,” I say.
“James is coming, right?”
“Yep. And probably his brothers, too.”
Laura sighs. “Cooper is so hot.”
I make a face. “You like the beard?”
“Definitely. Not that James isn’t cute with his whole clean-cut serious quarterback vibe, but Coop’s the one I’d tap.”
“Good to know,” I say dryly. “Considering James is mine.”
“He is cute,” someone agrees.
I turn, my eyes widening as I take in the fact my mother is standing in front of me, a bouquet of flowers in her arms. She kisses my cheek. “I know I’m early,” she says. “But I had something I wanted to talk to you about.”
I glance back at the display, wondering if maybe I should do some more rearranging, but my gut tells me no, it’s perfect. “I guess I’m done. I have a couple minutes before the gallery opens.”
She cradles the bouquet in the crook of her arm, holding out her hand. “There’s a little cafe next door, Nicole got us a table.”
“We can’t be long,” I warn.
“We won’t be,” she promises. “We’ll see you in a few minutes, Laura.”
I grab my coat and throw it on as I follow her out of the gallery. It’s weird enough to be in New York City, but seeing my mother here? I can’t remember the last time she left town, much less did something like this. Fortunately, the cafe is quite literally next door; I see Aunt Nicole in the window, sitting with a mug of tea in front of her.
“Bex!” she says, standing to hug me when we meet her at the table. “I can’t wait to see your photographs!”
“Thanks,” I say, sitting down across from her with my coat in my lap. My mom chooses to sit next to Aunt Nicole instead of me, which is a little weird. I’m irrationally worried I’m about to get alecture, but there’s no reason for that. I tap my ankle boot against the floor. “What’s up?”
They look at each other for a long moment. My mother takes a deep breath. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” she says. “Not at all, honey, this is a good thing. I want to sell the diner.”
I just stare at her. “What?”
“Nicole and I talked about it, and she helped me realize what we need to do. I should have sold it way back when, but I didn’t let myself move on.” She blinks; when she continues talking, her voice is thick. “I’ve held you back for too long. It wasn’t fair of me to try and tie you to it. I kept thinking maybe your father would come back to it, but he hasn’t. It’s time.”
As she talks, my heart starts sprinting in my chest, and by the time she finishes, I’m a little worried it’s about to explode. I realize with a start that I’m shaking. “Mom?” I manage to croak out.
