“Hey,” I say to a barista I recognize slightly. I think she’s a high school classmate of Amanda’s. “Is Kelsey in?” Kelsey owns Morning Rush coffee, which is where I am right now, breathing in the rich scents of coffee roasted on the premises, and bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches.
The walls of the coffee shop are decked with bright-colored art. Even in its rodeo days, Rush Creek had its share of artists attracted by the solitude of the mountains and the beautiful scenery, and that community has only grown more vibrant in the last couple of years, drawn by the hot springs.
“She’s in the back. Who do you want me to say is here?”
“Kane Wilder,” I say. “I’m here to ask about exhibiting some photos.”
I ordered a bunch of 16 x 20 prints of my favorite photos from the lab I like working with, and I’ve got them in a portfolio I’m carrying at my side. My heart’s in my throat. I honestly think a rejection from Kelsey might feel worse than that breakup by Veronica’s parents, which now seems hilarious, fated, and ancient. I can’t believe I thought Veronica was right for me. For that matter, I can’t believe I thought any of the women I’ve dated in the last decade was the one, as if all I needed was a girl with a Rush Creek address and glossy hair to be happy.
Turns out I was looking for something completely different.
The barista comes back. “She’ll be out in a few. In the meantime, have a seat, and she says coffee’s on us. What can I get you?”
“Dark roast would be great.”
She bustles behind the counter and hands me a to-go cup. I grab a table in the back corner and check my phone for texts. I’ve gotten in the habit of checking in frequently, because Mari could go into labor at any point.
She doesn’t know I’m here at the coffee shop, showing my photos. I guess part of me wanted it to be a surprise for her if it worked out. And if it didn’t—well, I guess I wasn’t sure I wanted her to know that.
She and the Wilder Woman Squad—as I secretly think of them—are back at my house, painting the nursery, previously known as the guest bedroom. Well, the others are painting; Mari’s supervising from just out of paint-fumes range. I offered to help and was flat-out rejected—by my own sister. Which if I’m being truthful made me super happy. I love that Mari is bonding with the other women.
Mari came back elated from her baby-gear shopping day a week ago.
I’d wanted to go on that outing, but some instinct told me not to invite myself along, and I’m glad I didn’t. Something happened on that trip that brought Mari into the fold. Since then, Mari’s been out with one of her women friends as often as she’s been home with me.
Which—I will say it again—I regard as evidence of victory. I always knew I wasn’t going to win her over on the strength of my own personality. It takes a village to make a new Wilder.
Kelsey comes out from the Morning Rush kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, leaving dark black streaks. When my eyes catch on the sight, her gaze follows mine, and she sighs. “Espresso machine broke. Fixing it’s a bitch and an unholy mess. You have something to show me?”
She hews to a particular Pacific Northwest type: gray hair, super fit, head-to-toe athletic wear including running shoes.
We move to a table where I open my portfolio. Then I lunge and manage to just catch my coffee before I knock it everywhere.
“That would have been unfortunate,” Kelsey says.
“At least they’re photographs and not pastels.”
“Ha,” she says. “So true.” She sits down and pages through my work. I try not to look over her shoulder, but I can’t help myself. I try to see my work through her eyes and read her expression for her reactions. The photo of Amanda and Anna is in there. The one of Mari in the Sluice Box, and then the series of photos of her, naked and almost nine full months pregnant, moving around the inside of her Airstream.
Kelsey’s got a good poker face, though, and watching her only knots up my stomach, so I tell her I’m going to take a quick walk and step outside the coffee shop, where I pace the sidewalk, wishing I could bundle my photos up and take them away from her prying eyes.
This was a bad idea. Lots of people take photos. Lots of people take good photos, even. It doesn’t mean they’re good enough to be on display.
She waves through the window for me to come back inside. She’s closed the portfolio, and she’s still expressionless. I brace myself for rejection.
“How long have you been taking photos?” she asks.
“My whole life,” I say.
“But you’ve never exhibited them. Not once?”
I shake my head.
She gives me a thoughtful look.
“I would love to exhibit these,” she says, smiling. Finally. “They’re amazing. But there’s someone else I think needs to see them first.”