41. The Great Sorting
41
THE GREAT SORTING
Leighton
Fine, fine. Birdie was right. Miles is a chef. He shows off his kitchen skills over the next several secret days and nights at his home, after he returns the four-pack to his mom’s.
I miss them fiercely. I kind of wish, too, I could have gone with him to return them. But that might have opened us up to too many questions—questions neither of us wants to face right now.
But his mom and Harvey are traveling to their hometown of Seattle soon to see both Patti LuPone and old friends, so there may be more dog-sitting in my future.
For now, there are nights with him in between an away game here or there.
One night he whips up homemade pizza with artichokes and olives, along with a perfect kale salad drizzled in a delicious olive oil. Another night he crafts a buttery mushroom risotto and asparagus that makes my tastebuds weep in happiness, serving it alongside a salad of spring greens dusted with an olive oil I deem mouth-watering. Then it’s arugula and hearts of palm, and after one bite at the counter, I declare the olive oil exquisite.
Miles smirks like he has a secret.
“What’s that for?” I ask.
“You.”
“I figured as much. But why?”
“You, Shutterbug, have fancy taste in olive oil.”
“That so?” I ask, unsure what he’s getting at.
“I’ve been secretly testing out various olive oils for you the last several nights.”
My jaw drops. “You’re tricking me,” I say, but I’m hardly mad.
“Maybe. But now I know your favorite—the most expensive one. That way, I can always make what you like best,” he says, and that makes my heart flip. “And make you happy.”
“It’s working,” I say, feeling all kinds of fizzy.
“Good. I’ll keep making your favorite things,” he says, then pours me some more Riesling, with a nod to the pretty white wine. “And keep them here for you too.”
He lifts his tumbler of amber liquid and we toast to my exquisite taste in olive oil and men . I clink my Riesling to his vile scotch. But it doesn’t taste so vile when I kiss it off his lips.
In fact, the kiss is as exquisite as the sex is hot when he takes me upstairs and bends me over the bed.
I think I like this little arrangement a lot. I like, too, the text message that Melissa sends me that evening.
Melissa: I think I’m ready!! !
I write back immediately telling her how happy I am to hear that, and that we’ll find a time soon.
Everything feels like it’s falling into place.
“Do I finally get details now? You’ve been holding out on me,” Maeve says with an over-the-top pout as we step out of Effing Stuff, the cutest little tchotchke shop on Fillmore Street the next day. The shop smells like lavender and lemon, and its shelves are crammed with quirky treasures, fun mugs, and playful decor—including Maeve’s love lessons mirrors. They’re flying off the shelves; we just dropped off several new boxes. I’m seriously proud of her, and I’ve told her as such many times.
“Have I been holding out?” I tease, but I know I have since the memory of last night rushes hot and bright through me on this Tuesday morning, along with all the things we’ve done the last two weeks—movie nights at home, reading together on the couch—him with his thought-provoking sci-fi allegories or books on human behavior, me with photography tomes. Then, our secret dates at Birdie’s coffee shop. Maybe someday soon I’ll join him with his geocaching club, but not yet.
Maeve stops and stomps her foot. “Yes!” She keeps walking. “You made me do all this work stuff first. So, now it’s time. Dish.”
Gladly. My secret nights and days are too good to keep from a friend. “It’s been two weeks, and we’ve pulled it off—this secretly-living-together thing,” I tell Maeve, and I can’t strip the giddiness from my tone. Nor do I want to .
“Impressive,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “I tripped up so many times in the early days with Asher.”
I nod, remembering the chaos of their accidental Vegas marriage. Brunches, dinners—pretending to be a real couple while navigating their very real, very messy feelings. And yet, somewhere along the way, they became everything to each other. “It’s easier for me, though, since we’re not a public thing like you two were,” I say, a little defensively, but not because she’s attacking me.
“Right. Sure,” she says. “But I’m still impressed you’ve done it.”
It’s a compliment from a friend. I know it is. And yet, I feel a little icky. “It just makes sense right now. It’s…prudent,” I say but my chest tightens at the justification of our secrecy. “My dad’s too busy juggling his job and raising my teenage sister solo to keep tabs on me. He’s either at the rink or having dinner in Mill Valley with Riley. It’s not like he’d even know where I was staying.”
That’s what I have to tell myself. Because what’s the alternative? I’m simply not ready to tell my father about my feelings for one of his star players. I’m still sorting them out. And he doesn’t need to be a part of The Great Sorting.
“That’s good,” Maeve says, but her brow furrows. “We had the opposite problem—everyone expected us to live together.”
I glance at my artist friend, her pace slowing as we stroll up Fillmore. The easy rhythm of our conversation falters when she turns to me and asks thoughtfully, “But what happens next?”
My stomach knots. “You mean how long will we keep this up? ”
“Yes,” she says gently, her concern laced with kindness.
I don’t answer right away. My thoughts bump into each other—the way I feel for Miles, but also how sticky the situation is. How long can it go on like this? But then, there are all my own fears too—of the future and what it holds for me. I just don’t know what that means for romance, for a partner, or for how I might want to, or more so, need to live my life. “I don’t know,” I admit honestly. “It’s a lot to figure out—how to time everything right. I don’t want to shock my dad or hurt him, especially this early in the season. Plus, Riley’s already looking into where she might want to go to college, so the two of them are trying to squeeze in some college visits when he has a day off here and there. He’s ridiculously busy. And there’s just…other stuff too,” I say since some things you need to sort out for yourself.
Maeve nods thoughtfully, understanding passing in her eyes even if she doesn’t know the specifics of my fears. “You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”
It’s a relief to hear that from her—maybe exactly what I needed this morning. “And…” I hesitate, before another truth springs free. “I want to be sure. I’m only twenty-four. Do you really meet the one at this age?”
Her smile is a little sly as she says, “I met Asher when I was nineteen.”
“But you became friends,” I say, pointing out the obvious. “You didn’t fall for him till ten years later.”
“True,” she acknowledges, sighing too. “A lot’s at stake. You want to be sure, especially if it’s scary.”
I do want to be certain. At my age, what are the chances that this is…the big love? Should I upend so many lives for something that might not be? “Exactly. It’s go od to be practical. To be certain,” I say, my fingers drifting to the flower stud earrings Miles gave me more than a year ago—I’ve never stopped wearing them, but is that the same as being sure he’s the one? Questions plague me, and my muscles tighten with worry as my mind whirs. But rather than carry this alone, I turn to Maeve, stopping on the street corner and blurting out, “What if this is the wrong time in my life? There’s so much I want to do work-wise—I even have some great ideas about how to expand my business to help with the rent situation at the studio. The job will end soon enough with the Sea Dogs, but I came up with a plan yesterday when I was at the arena, and I’ve been working out the details in my head.” My heart beats faster, but it’s the kind of speed that comes from being chased. “Is now even the time in my life to…”
Her smile is soft, full of wisdom as she says, “To fall in love?”
I wince. “Yes, it’s kind of awful—falling for someone.”
That cracks her up. “Yes, yes it is.”
But will it last? Is it the kind of thing that’s worth all the upheaval? “I want there to be no question,” I say.
“I hear you.” She pauses, squeezes my arm briefly. “And what I really hear is you need more time, friend.”
And that word— time —settles my wild thoughts. She’s right. That’s exactly what I need. “I do. Thanks. I didn’t even realize how much I needed to hear that.”
She lets go. “I’m always here to share whatever little wisdom I might happen to have.”
“I’d say you have a lot.”
“Love you. I’m proud of you. Tell me about your business idea next time I see you.”
“I will and I’m proud of you too,” I say since you should always tell your friends they’re amazing. “Love you too.”
We part ways and I feel more calm, thanks to her. As I head to High Kick to meet Miles, I try to let go of the questions that chase me. The how, the when, the will it work?
A few minutes later, my pulse races in a new way, fluttering with excitement once more. Even though I saw him this morning at home, these secret dates are special—necessary even. I have my trusty camera with me so I’ll take the latte and pastry pictures, but the flicker inside me comes from knowing I’ll see him in public.
But where it’s safe to see him.
Like Maeve said, I do need time. And I also need this kind of time with Miles. This almost feels like a real romance—dates, shared moments, a glimpse of what life together could be.
As I push open the door, passing the glittery Dolly, I leave the rest of San Francisco behind. Birdie flashes me a knowing smile from behind the counter, grabs a brownie, and hustles around it. With the treat in hand, she ushers me to the back of the café.
“A table for Cindy is ready,” she says, and yep, with her use of the dog’s names for us, she’s definitely earned her admission into The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society.
Miles is here already with a new mason jar of wildflowers for the table, but they have different colors this time—peaches and plums, and the fact that he’s mixed up the assortment every time we’ve met here is so very him. So is the affection in his dark brown eyes. It’s hard not to fling myself at him. To rise up on tiptoes when he stands, to kiss him here, then beyond the doors .
But I dig my nails into my palms, a reminder that we’re here as…friends.
It’s not the brownie I can’t wait for. It’s the moment when I’ll have no more questions.
Today, though, I’m ready for another step—a smaller one, but an important one nonetheless. “You asked about my rent the other week, if I wanted to talk about it,” I tell him after Birdie brings me a tea and him an espresso.
“I did,” he says, his eyes sparkling, clearly eager for me to share.
“So I actually had this idea when I was shooting the tunnel picture of you yesterday for the calendar.”
He holds up a hand. “If this is about a Miles-only centerfold calendar, I should warn you—it’s strictly a one-person distribution.”
I laugh, but the laughter softens as I focus on my plans. Nerves flutter in my chest, but I share them anyway. “Speaking of, that’s kind of my idea.”
His brow arches. “You’re saying people would be more interested in buying a calendar of you?”
“In a way,” I say, then explain. “I was thinking of offering boudoir sessions for some of the players’ wives and girlfriends—like Melissa, maybe Christian’s wife, or Freya, Alexei’s girlfriend—and making calendars they could gift their partners.”
The delight on his face is undeniable, and it tells me I’ve hit on a good idea. “Is that why you were looking at calendar templates on your tablet the other week?”
I nod, surprised, but delighted he remembers that. “I was brainstorming, and it hit me—it’s a perfect extension of what I’m already doing. Melissa wants to do a shoot, so I’m excited to pitch the idea to others too. ”
He leans closer, his voice warm. “I love the way your brain works. I love that you’re sharing this with me.”
“Sharing isn’t really my forte, but maybe it can be,” I say.
“It can,” he says, and I know it’s true—I just had to get there on my own. “But I do have one suggestion.”
“Hit me,” I say, emboldened by his support.
“I think you should raise your prices.”
My face goes blank for a second. “Really?”
“You’re worth it,” he says, his voice steady and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your landlord raised the prices, and you’re a phenomenal photographer who makes clients feel beautiful and empowered. Maybe just five percent, but it’s time. You’re worth it.”
You know what? He’s right.
I am.
Soon, he heads to the rink to work out, and I stop by Hush Hush to make sure I have everything I need for my next set of shoots.
I don’t love showing up at the Sea Dogs arena with him—it feels too public, too risky—so arriving separately also makes everything easier.
In the early afternoon the bus drops me off for another calendar shoot. This time, I take playful shots of Little Friends’ adoptable mutts causing mayhem in the locker room—chewing on skates, chasing pucks, or sitting triumphantly on the benches.
As the guys shift into pre-game mode, I put my camera in the bag and swing by Melissa’s cookie cart near the concession area.
“If you’re ready, I am too,” I say.
She draws a big, nervous breath but grins. “Sexy and sweet, here I come. ”
Sexy and sweet. The words spark something—an idea that clicks perfectly into place. Her sweet with my sexy. “Would you ever want to do a collab?”
“I love partnering with smart, savvy businesswomen,” she says. “Tell me more.”
Within ten minutes, we’re brainstorming packages of lingerie-shaped cookies and sexy pics for boudoir-themed bridal showers, bachelorette parties, and other events. We even schedule a time for her session.
Maybe this is part of what I needed with time—time to see that I can keep growing my business. That I can give my work the attention it deserves and I want.
When the game starts, I take my spot in the stands. My good mood flickers momentarily when I see my dad in his suit, game face on, leading his players. I don’t want to keep lying to him, but I know I need to be certain before I say anything.
I do my best to push the thought aside, letting the fast pace of the game pull me in, feeling a connection to Miles that’s both wonderful and a little painful. I want to cheer louder for him. The loudest, actually. I want to wear his jersey. He’s never asked me to but I know he’d love it, especially considering how wild it made him the night I wore it on the dog-cam. I want to wave to him. To wait for him. To be the one who asks how he feels after a win or loss and to listen no matter how he feels. I want to be the safe space for him to open his heart to not just in his home, but out of it. But does that mean I’m ready to take this terrifying step into a future I’ve tried to meticulously, painstakingly plan for?
I shudder, wishing I had all the answers and trying vainly once more to focus on the ice. It’s hard to separate thoughts of him from the game. But by the time intermission starts, I’m ready to focus on my next shot.
Sabrina glides onto the ice with an effortless grace, her skating style both fun and athletic. She tosses T-shirts into the crowd, her spins and axels breathtaking, her energy infectious. It’s hard to look away from her, and I’m pretty sure no one does.
When the game ends, I meet Everly near the locker room to snap a shot of Sabrina with some of the guys on the team.
Including Miles’s brother, who seems determined to get in the shot. Or at least on saying hello. Maybe he noticed her at the end of intermission, skating off the ice? I bet he did.
“Wow,” Tyler says, stepping into the corridor as Sabrina approaches. His tone is casual, but there’s a flicker of curiosity in his eyes. Maybe intrigue. “You were amazing.”
Whoa. Did Tyler just single out her figure-skating moves?
Sabrina smiles at him. “Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.”
“I do my best,” he says dryly.
Everly must notice their interaction since her eyes light up. “Why don’t we take a picture of you two on the ice?”
Tyler fights off a smile, offering a stoic, “Sure.”
She guides them back down the tunnel, and I follow. Once there, I snap their photo, and the way he wraps an arm around Sabrina tells me everything I need to know. The dude has a serious crush.
But the glint of a ring on her finger reminds me that Tyler’s crush might be real, but it’s going nowhere .
Later, at Miles’s house, I show him the photo of the two. “I think your brother has it bad for the taken figure skater.”
Miles studies it, a smirk shifting his lips. “Yeah, that’s definitely a crush. Better luck next time, little brother,” he says with a chuckle.
Then he pulls me in for a kiss—one that’s interrupted by my phone buzzing.
I grab it and check the screen. My dad. He’s sent a picture of Riley and me—from his digital frame. In it, we’re holding mugs at a diner. It’s from a couple years ago. Before I started lying to him, only he has no idea that’s how I’m marking time. My stomach drops as I read his note.
This was fun! We should grab breakfast again soon. I’ve been slammed with college stuff. What are you up to tonight?
My face burns with guilt as I type back a lie. Just editing photos.
The truth presses at the edges of my thoughts, demanding its release. I wish I didn’t have to lie—but I’m not ready for the conversation that comes with the truth.
Not yet. But maybe with a little more time.