45. Move It Up
45
MOVE IT UP
Leighton
I haven’t seen her in more than a year, yet she looks exactly the same. Like she’s just stepped out of her latest Botox appointment. Her white teeth gleam, her lasered skin glows, and her perfectly styled hair shines. My mother has always known how to take care of herself, exuding the polished air of someone who runs a handbag empire.
But seeing her now feels like being caught in a spin cycle—she’s glossy and chaotic all at once. I brace myself for impact.
“Wh-what are you doing here?” I stammer, my voice uneven and so unlike me.
“Honey, is that any way to greet your mother?” she asks, arching a brow.
There’s no right way to greet someone you didn’t expect to see today, especially not at work. “How are you?” I try again, though my voice wavers like I’m the clothes tumbling in that wild washing machine.
“So glad you asked,” she chirps, all smiles, clearly pleased I’ve spoken correctly now. “I’m in town for business—I have a very big retail partner here in San Francisco. But I figured I’d swing by, too, to share the good news. But first…” She turns to Miles, assessing him with interest. “You must be…let me guess…Miles Falcon.”
Miles is stoic, game face on. “Yes, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending a hand, his polite smile unshaken despite the awkwardness as he waits for her to supply her last name.
“Grace. Grace Adley,” she says with a smirk, taking his hand and shaking it.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Adley,” he says, and this moment feels surreal—like one of those uncomfortable dreams you wish you could wake up from. And yet, here we are as my mother practically bounces like she has a secret she’s dying to divulge.
“But—confession: my name’s about to change.”
And the whiplash continues. I shake my head like she can’t have just said that. Like I heard her wrong. “It’s about to change?”
She turns directly to me, her tone exaggerated as she repeats, “Yes, it’s about to change.” She raises her volume unnecessarily and over-pronounces every word. It’s condescending, but I don’t have the energy to correct her. She’s never taken the time to understand that I’m not broken.
But I’m not going to teach her now. Instead, I say, “Why is it about to change?”
I have a feeling though that I already know the answer since she said she’s here to share good news. Still, it’s best to let her have the spotlight. I already strongly dislike her being in my place of work. It feels unsettling, like I’m walking across a funhouse floor.
She takes her time, assessing me up and down, and even glances at Miles again. He seems to realize that he shouldn’t be here for this conversation. Reading the situation perfectly, he decides this isn’t his moment as my boyfriend yet. After a brief pause, he says, “I’ll excuse myself so you two can have some time to catch up. It was a pleasure meeting you, Ms. Adley. Good luck with everything.”
He strides away, heading toward the locker room.
“What’s your news, Mom?” I ask, pasting on a smile I don’t feel.
She beams at me, her excitement so bright it almost feels blinding. “Baby, I’m getting married!”
My stomach twists as she adds, “And you’re never going to believe who I’m marrying. It’s Michael! We got back together.”
“Michael,” I repeat flatly, needing a moment to process. Michael, as in my father’s former agent. Michael, the man she had an affair with while she was married to my dad. Michael, whose “romance” with her only lasted about a year after the divorce.
Michael—the reason my family shattered when I was just fourteen.
“Yes! Isn’t it wonderful? We ran into each other again, and sparks flew. It was magical. I knew he was the one who got away.” She clutches her chest dramatically, like she’s describing a scene from a Hallmark movie.
“I’m…so happy for you,” I manage to say, forcing my lips to curve into a polite smile.
“And, of course, you’ll take the photos for my wedding,” she says breezily, as if it’s already a done deal. “I won’t take no for an answer.”
Her tone is chipper, but we both know it’s not a joke. She expects my yes to be handed over on a silver platter.
“When is it?” I ask in my most professional tone possible.
She rattles off a date in two weeks, and my stomach sinks. I already know I have a conflict. “I have the final calendar shoot with the team that day.”
Her smile vanishes into smoke. “Can’t you just change it this time?”
Change it? Like I’m the one inconveniencing her by having a life?
I exhale, trying to steady myself. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The words taste bitter as they leave my mouth, and I want to walk them back. To say no. To tell her it’s inappropriate to show up at my place of work to demand I take her pictures. But guilt is already clawing at me, forcing its way into every corner of my mind.
“Baby, I just love that you’re such a family gal. Working with your dad, working with your mom. You’re so loyal.” She waves, adding, “I should go find Eleanor—we always make time for each other. I bet she’ll love hearing all about the wedding!”
Of course she has friends in high places. It’s her style. Always making herself at home.
What’s my style though? Sneaking around?
Ugh. But in a couple more days, it won’t be. I can simply be the storytelling photographer I want to be—creative, reliable, with an excellent eye.
Yes, that’s who I’ll be .
But as I walk away, I start to wonder. What am I waiting for?
Maybe I don’t need to wait for Saturday. Maybe it doesn’t need to be perfect—it just needs to happen.
If I keep looking for the perfect time, I’ll keep losing the one thing we can’t get back—time.
I check my phone. The guys arrive in fifteen minutes for the “suit walk.”
Why wait? It’s not going to be any easier no matter how perfectly I plan it.
As my mom disappears in a cloud of Dior J’adore and entitlement, I go the other way.
Straight to my dad’s office.
My heart thuds louder with every step. Telling him now—a few hours before a game—feels terrifying.
But the thought of waiting another day feels worse.