Chapter Twenty-Four #2
I’m about to crawl out of my skin when they finally get to the part we’re all here for. Tracy takes third place with her rainbow and tornado shot. I grab my phone and quickly send her an all-caps text that’s mostly exclamation points.
My breath stutters when I hear Wes’s name next.
He’s come in second with a shot I recognize from our time together.
If I wasn’t standing next to him when he took it, it would be hard to believe he didn’t photoshop the lightning bolt crashing down, perfectly centered between the ruins of old farm equipment.
Some part of me expected him to win the whole thing. The fact that he came in second is so much of a surprise I’m barely paying attention to the rest of the announcement—until I hear my own name.
“…Sloane Michaels, with a stunning image aptly titled Valkyrie, to be revealed at the awards gala. Congratulations to the winners and to everyone who submitted. You are all supremely talented and didn’t make this easy for the judges.
Details on the ceremony to be held next month in Los Angeles will be emailed out in the next forty-eight hours. Thanks for joining us!”
My phone starts ringing and doesn’t stop. I’m too stunned to answer, frozen in the middle of my office and staring at what is now a blank window where the live stream once was.
I won.
I’m going to be on the cover of Nature Shots. This time, when the numbness cracks, there’s no stopping the tears that flood down my cheeks.
Wes is the person whose voice I want to hear most right now. He’s the one I want to celebrate this moment with. He’s the one I want to hear whisper in that low bedroom voice I’m so proud of you, darlin’.
But Wes isn’t here.
My phone continues to light up with a flood of incoming texts. I didn’t realize how invested the overall chasing community was in this contest—every chaser I know in possession of my phone number sends well wishes and joking complaints that I’ve been hiding a stunning image.
I’m in too much of a daze to wonder why my brothers are bothering to knock when I hear someone at my front door, never mind why they’re two hours early for dinner.
I pull the door open and blink at the sight that awaits me.
Then I blink again, certain I’ve hallucinated the enormous bouquet of flowers dwarfing the delivery guy.
He peers out from behind the blooms, juggling a clipboard. “Sloane Michaels?”
“Yes?”
“I’m going to need you to sign for these.” A glass vase is thrust into my hands. “Careful, it’s heavy.”
I eye the bouquet, a mix of roses and peonies and calla lilies all in deep shades of pink that too closely match the dress in my cover photo—my cover photo!—to be coincidence. It must have cost a small fortune to get them to my doorstep within an hour of the announcement.
Either Nature Shots has a hell of a publicist working overtime, or…
“Who are they from?” I croak.
The delivery guy shrugs. “Not my department. Mind signing? Got a few more deliveries to make.”
“Right, yes, of course.” I barely manage to scribble my name on the electronic pad without dropping anything. Then it’s just me and the emotional landmine of a bouquet.
I bring the vase into the kitchen and set it on the counter before eyeing it with trepidation. There’s a card tucked into the middle of the blooms, the small envelope a pale pink taunt as my kitchen fills with a delicious floral scent.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scold myself after a few minutes of silent standoff with the flowers. I pluck the card out and quickly rip it open, determined to get this over with.
I’m so proud of you. I miss you.
I slap my palm over my mouth to stifle the sob that breaks free. It’s what I wanted to hear, but the impersonal serif font just emphasizes the current chasm between us.
I trace my fingertip over the slant of the W beneath the short message and struggle to keep breathing as longing slams into me.
Burying my face in the flowers, I take a deep breath of their sweet scent.
My emotions are all over the place. Anything I decide now will be a knee-jerk reaction.
I debate sending Tracy a photo of the bouquet for advice, but she just won too.
Better to let her celebrate in peace without my relationship drama.
Wes and I will both be in Los Angeles in a couple of weeks for the gala. If I’m going to let him back into my life, into my heart, I need to be certain it’s the right choice, not an emotional reaction in an emotional moment.
Today, I start small. First by digging the pink dress out of my closet and promptly dropping it off at the dry cleaner. And then, once I’m home and have changed my mind so many times I’m sick of thinking about it, I send a simple text.
Thank you for the flowers.
It’s a pretty half-assed olive branch. Wes replies in less than a minute anyway.
I’m glad you like them. And then, barely thirty seconds later, I’m sorry, Sloane. You were right about all of it. I didn’t stop to think about my actions or how they would make you feel. I won’t make excuses. I should have listened and respected your decision.
And then, a few seconds after that, I miss you so fucking much.
I give myself a minute to consider my response.
I miss Wes, but I’m not ready to open that door.
Not when I’m expecting my brothers in half an hour.
Not with the high of my win still racing through my veins.
But for the first time since I opened that email, I’m no longer as certain as I once was that what Wes did is truly unforgivable.
I take a deep, shaky breath and reply, Let’s talk when we’re both in LA. Congrats on your shot too.
The typing bubble appears and disappears too many times to count.
I chew my lip while I watch, knowing I should put my phone down and do something else before the guilt and want and anxiety win.
Instead I stay right where I am until Wes finally sends back, I’m not trying to make excuses, but there are things I should have told you earlier.
I can wait until we’re in LA, but I would like the chance to explain.
I don’t overthink my reply, but once it’s written and my thumb is hovering over the screen, I chicken out. I stare at it for far too long, second-guessing if honesty really is the best policy when it comes to Wes. If I’m giving him too much power, too much room to hurt me all over again.
I don’t send the text. I also don’t delete it. I just lock my phone and let it clatter onto the counter before turning my focus to the dinner I promised my brothers.
“What’s with the flowers?” Sam plunks a six-pack on my counter and stares at the pink blooms like they’re crime scene evidence.
Eric grabs one of Sam’s beers, ignores our brother’s protest, and uses the bottle opener on his keys to pop the top before declaring them fuckup flowers.
“Definitely fuckup flowers,” Sam agrees. Both of them turn to me with expectant faces.
“Who fucked up?” Eric drops his keys on the counter and pokes at the flowers, probably looking for the card I already hid in my office. “You broke up with that Wes guy, right? Kind of a shame. He seemed solid.”
“Solid?” I gape at my brother, who hasn’t liked a single man I’ve dated. “Since when are you a fan of Wes?”
Eric and Sam exchange a long look. “What did he do?” Sam grabs a beer of his own and then ducks around me to inhale the spicy scent wafting from the meat sizzling on the stove. “Can you show Cassie how to make your recipe?”
I shove him away and flip the chicken over. “If you don’t like the way she does it, you can always make them yourself. Just be grateful she’s willing to cook for your sorry ass.”
“She loves my ass.” Sam smacks his own butt with nauseating pride. “Squats, baby.”
Making a retching noise, I take the beer Eric offers and down several long gulps. “I do not want to hear about your ass, Sam.”
“That’s fine,” Eric says, a little too cheerful for how his eyes are narrowed on the bouquet. “You can tell us about what Wes did that he’s sending you flowers weeks after you dumped his ass.”
Time to steer the conversation away from my disastrous love life. “If you’re done talking about asses, I was going to tell you that I won the cover contest.”
“Wait, really?” Eric asks at the same time Sam says, “Are you serious? That’s awesome!”
“Yeah. Found out a few hours ago.”
“Well, congrats! You going to show us the photo that won?” Eric leans against the counter while he sips his beer and throws a look of exaggerated hurt at Sam. “She tells us nothing. Her own brothers, and we’re the last to know.”