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She’d probably blocked me.
I probably would have.
I sank into my office chair, swiveling it to look out at the view of downtown Los Angeles. I’d been there almost two months. It hadn’t exactly taken a long time to pack up my apartment—I was single, after all, and a bachelor. My TV, my video games, and my clothes were really the most important things I owned.
I went to work, went home, spent the weekends driving around or going to the gym. I didn’t go anywhere that wasn’t work-related.
I didn’t want to meet anyone, despite a handful of people I met wanting me to meet their sister or their best friend or their cousin.
I didn’t want to meet anyone.
I didn’t want to date.
The only woman I thought had been perfect for me had likely slammed the door on me for eternity.
I just wanted her to see her potential. I saw those photos she took. I saw the joy on her face when she took them. I saw the comments on her page.
She deserved better than working at Jimmy’s diner on the late shift so she could take pictures in her off time. Pictures that were stored on her hard drive and never seeing the light of day.
I’d been an idiot.
We’d been best friends for almost five years, and now, I’d blown it. I should have known better, known how to handle her, how to gently persuade her into something. Start small and work bigger.
Instead, I’d gone full force, tried to storm through her walls, and all it had gotten me was kicked out of her life.
If I’d never gotten the job offer, maybe things would have been different. But I couldn’t have said no—it was too big a deal not to take. It was my dream. I wanted to make junior partner, then partner someday. I wanted my name on the wall.
My watch buzzed. I had an hour until I had to go get my new headshot. Required for the wall in the reception area, the website, and my new business cards. The photo I had now was too dated, apparently, or just didn’t blend in with the LA aesthetic was the unsaid message I picked up on.
I checked my phone, seeing I had almost a full charge, and slipped it into my jacket pocket before getting up.
Some studio I’d never heard of.
’Course I hadn’t been there long enough to hear of a lot of things.
I’d get this done and then take a long lunch. I didn’t have much on my schedule that afternoon; I could work from home. I slipped the folders into my briefcase, told the secretary my plans, and headed out into the bright California sunshine, slipping my sunglasses on to shield my eyes from the glare.
That was the only one good point about this move so far.
I wasn’t homesick for anything or anyone but Abbie.
30
Abbie
I’d been in Los Angeles about a month. I had a cute one-bedroom house I’d rented, plus a job I liked with people I liked. I had a steady paycheck from my photography. I’d visited galleries, I’d shown my portfolio to over a dozen people, and I had a second meeting later that week to discuss a small showing.
A showing.
In Los Angeles.
It was a small gallery, but it had a good rep, and it was growing. I didn’t care—I just wanted to get my work out there, get seen.
I even had interest in some of the Curaçao photos from a travel magazine. It was like everything was happening all at once and picking up steam. I couldn’t slow down if I wanted to.
And I didn’t want to.
I looked at the appointment book again behind the reception desk.
