Chapter 27 #2
And tomorrow: private viewing. 19:00. Dress accordingly.
Dress accordingly.
I didn’t know what that meant coming from him, and that terrified me more than if he’d yelled.
My phone buzzed again—Dominic.
A text this time.
Dominic:
Free tonight? I can make time. Actual time. Not “walking to court” time.
My chest tightened so hard I had to sit down.
Actual time.
The thing I never gave him.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard, instincts flaring: say yes, say yes, fix it, be good.
Then my calendar flickered in my mind like a warning light. Mischa’s project. René’s ten. Tomorrow’s viewing. Noor. Frankie. The Daily. The world.
The day.
My brain reached for its favorite solution: postpone. Delay. Tomorrow.
I stared at Dominic’s name until my eyes burned.
Then, before I could be a coward, I typed:
Me:
I can do ten minutes. Real ten minutes. After dinner. I want to hear your voice.
I hit send before I could rethink, replan, or reframe.
My heart kicked hard—panic and relief tangled together.
A beat later, my phone buzzed.
Dominic:
Ten minutes is a start. I’ll take it. I miss you, Flash.
My throat tightened.
I forced myself to breathe.
That night, I tried to build the ten images.
Not the kind that proved I knew how to expose correctly. Not the kind that could be sold.
Images that cost me.
It sounded poetic until you actually had to do it.
I opened folders. Scrolled through weeks of work. Everything looked clean. Competent. Controlled. Distant.
Mischa’s voice slid into my head: A computer could generate it.
René’s: Technique becoming camouflage.
And hers, earlier today, warm and quiet. Don’t forget you’re a person.
I stared at the screen until my eyes blurred.
Then I opened extras_misc.
The folder name made my stomach twist like shame.
There she was—laughing. Unposed. Alive.
I hovered over it.
My cursor trembled once, barely noticeable.
I added it to a new folder.
Ten Images — Friday
I added another. A blurred motion shot from the métro where someone’s hand reached for someone else’s and missed.
A reflection in a rain puddle—my own legs, my bag, my pace.
A shot of soup night stairs empty, wine cups abandoned like an afterimage of belonging.
A photo Dominic had taken of me once—my face half turned, startled by laughter, real for a second. It wasn’t “good.” It was honest. That counted.
By midnight, I had seven.
Seven images that made my chest feel too tight.
Three to go.
I recorded Dominic’s ten-minute call in my head like it was an appointment I might forget.
At exactly 20:40, I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Flash.”
Just hearing him loosened something in me. Familiar. Steady.
“Hi,” I said, and my voice wobbled in a way I didn’t mean.
A pause.
“Hey,” he said softly. “What’s wrong?”
I swallowed. “Nothing.”
He didn’t bite. He just waited, patient as ever, and the silence made me want to scream.
“I met someone,” I blurted.
The words landed like a plate shattering.
On the other end, Dominic went very quiet.
“Okay,” he said carefully. “Tell me what you mean by that.”
I closed my eyes hard. My heart hammered.
“I mean—” My voice shook. “I mean she’s been around at shoots. She’s… kind. And funny. And she makes me breathe. And I haven’t—” I stopped, because my throat was closing. “I haven’t done anything. Not really.”
Not really.
What a bullshit phrase.
Dominic didn’t speak for a long moment.
When he did, his voice was gentle in a way that hurt.
“Did you kiss her?”
My mouth went dry.
“Yes,” I admitted, barely audible.
A longer pause.
Not anger.
Not shouting.
Just a silence that felt like distance being measured.
“Okay,” Dominic said again, and his voice was different now. Not cold. Just… braced. “Thank you for telling me.”
I flinched at the kindness like it was a blade. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I said, too fast. “I don’t know who I’m— I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not trying to—”
“Flash,” he interrupted softly. “Stop. Breathe.”
I did, shakily. “I need you to be honest,” he said. “Not efficient. Honest.”
I swallowed hard. “I’m trying.”
“I believe you,” he said, and the faith in his voice made my eyes burn. “But trying isn’t the same as deciding.”
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I know,” I whispered.
On the other end, Dominic exhaled slowly.
“Rachel,” he said, voice low. “Do you want to be with me?”
The question hit like a spotlight. No wiggle room. No calendar. No escape.
My heart pounded.
I opened my mouth—
And nothing came out.
Because I wanted him.
And I wanted her.
And I wanted my work.
And I wanted my future.
And I wanted to never have to lose anything.
Silence stretched.
Dominic’s voice, when it came, was quiet and wreckingly calm. “Okay,” he said. “That’s your answer.”
“Dominic—” My voice cracked.
“I have to go,” he said gently. “I’m not hanging up because I don’t love you. I’m hanging up because I do.”
My breath hitched.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said desperately, like I could staple the conversation to the future and pretend it wasn’t happening.
Dominic was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Don’t promise me tomorrow if you’re going to keep living like there’s no such thing.”
The call ended.
The silence in my apartment wasn’t quiet.
It was loud.
It was judgment.
It was the exact vacuum I kept filling with tasks.
My hands shook.
I stared at my laptop.
Seven images. Three missing.
René’s deadline.
Mischa’s demand.
Dominic’s question still hanging in the air like smoke.
And then—like my life had decided to be a cruel joke—my phone buzzed.
A text.
From a number I hadn’t saved.
But now I didn’t have to pretend I didn’t know who it was. I could save her in my contacts.
Name her there.
Kiara:
You okay? You went very quiet today.
I stared at the message until the letters blurred.
My thumb hovered.
And for the first time in a long time, the answer I wanted wasn’t efficient.
It was honest.
I typed:
Me:
No.
I hit send.
Then I sat back on my couch, breath shaking, and waited to see what would catch fire first. Because something always did.