18. Dannica #2
We walk along in silence for a while until I pluck up the courage to blurt out the question that’s been on my mind all afternoon. “Can I ask you something?”
He looks at me. “Sure.”
“What’s your name? Your full name.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in suspicion, but amusement, like he already knows exactly where this is going.
“You’re going to look me up.”
I don’t even hesitate, meeting his gaze without blinking.
“Obviously.”
That gets another laugh out of him, but there’s hesitation there too now. A flicker of something more guarded, like he’s deciding how much of himself to hand over.
“Why is it important?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’m on a hike with a man who carries around a camera like it’s an extension of his soul. I feel like a Google search is the bare minimum.”
He studies me for a second, his gaze lingering, weighing something I can’t quite see.
He sighs. “Theodore Rowlins.”
That name sounds important. I pull out my phone immediately.
“Dannica—”
Too late. I type it in.
And then…. Oh my god.
The screen floods with images, articles, interviews, exhibits, awards. His work stacks faster than I can process. It’s everywhere.
I look up at him, standing there like this is no big deal.
Like he’s not… this.
brEAKING: MAN WITH PERFECT JAWLINE ALSO INCREDIBLY TALENTED. UNFAIR ADVANTAGE SUSPECTED.
I slowly lower my phone. “You’re a big deal.”
He winces. “I hate that phrase.”
“Well, I love it. It’s accurate.” I gesture vaguely at my phone. “You’re on billboards and in galleries, Teddy. I can barely keep leftovers alive in my fridge.”
He huffs out a breath. “That’s exactly the problem.”
Just like that, the shine shifts, and I see it. The doubt. A weird, unexpected feeling settles in my chest. And I think I get it. He’s as famous as fame can get him and yet he is just as lost as I am.
“You know how I feel,” he says. “You feel it too.”
My chest swells because he sees me. Somehow, he sees me more clearly than people who’ve known me my entire life. I stare down at the ground, watching my boot scuff loose gravel.
“I always thought I’d be a journalist.”
The words come out softer than I mean them to.
He’s quiet for a beat. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I shrug, suddenly hyper-aware of how vulnerable that sounds out loud. “My brain just works that way. Everything turns into a story. Every little detail turns into an angle.” I glance up at him. “Even when I don’t want it to.”
“That’s where the headlines come from.”
“Exactly.” I huff out a laugh. “Which is great when you’re writing. Less great when you’re lying awake at two in the morning mentally narrating your own breakdown.”
His mouth twitches. “What made you want to do it?”
The question catches me a little off guard. Nobody’s ever asked it like it matters. I look out through the trees, trying to find the right words.
“I think…” I exhale slowly. “I liked that stories made people feel seen. Like maybe the world’s a little less lonely when somebody notices things.”
His expression changes slightly at that.
“And I liked chasing something,” I admit. “Meeting people, learning things, feeling like my life was moving somewhere instead of…” I gesture vaguely behind me. “Looping.”
“What changed?”
“There it is,” I say quietly.
“The question?”
I nod and look down at the trail for a second. “A few weeks ago, my grandmother offered me the diner.”
He doesn’t interrupt.
“I think that’s when everything got complicated. Before that, journalism was this thing I wanted. A dream I could always get around to later. Now, suddenly there’s an actual choice in front of me.”
“You don’t sound very excited about it.”
“I am excited about it.” I huff out a laugh. “That’s the problem. I love the diner. I love my family. I love this town, most days. But now, whenever I think about journalism, I feel guilty. And every time I think about staying, I wonder if I’m giving up on something I wanted for a long time.”
The gravel crunches beneath our boots as we continue up the trail.
“I’m scared I’ll make the wrong choice,” I admit. “Or worse, that I won’t make a choice at all. That I’ll just keep putting it off until one day I wake up and realize the decision got made without me.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything, then Teddy lets out a quiet breath.
“Yeah,” he says. “I know exactly what that feels like.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He glances down at the camera hanging at his chest. “Photography used to feel…” He pauses, searching. “Hungry. I wanted to chase moments. Capture people honestly. Show them something they couldn’t see themselves.”
“And now?”
“Now half the time it feels like pressure.” His jaw tightens slightly. “I’m bogged down by deadlines and expectations to impress people.”
I study him for a second.
“That’s sad.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah. It is.”
“But you still love it.”
His eyes meet mine. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
The way he says it does something strange to me. Not the words themselves, but the certainty behind them. Underneath all the frustration and doubt and pressure, he really still loves photography. The chase of it. The seeing part.
Suddenly, I can’t stop wondering if that’s what’s been bothering me so much lately.
Not that I stayed or even that I’m scared.
But that somewhere along the line, I convinced myself that wanting more made me selfish.
Because hearing him talk about photography, about that hunger, that pull that becomes part of you until you don’t really know how to separate yourself from it anymore is painfully familiar.
Maybe that’s why this conversation feels so… big. Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel ridiculous for wanting something outside the diner walls. We keep walking after that, neither of us saying much. But the silence feels different now. Closer.
A few minutes later, we reach a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley. The trees thin just enough to reveal rolling hills stretching into the distance, washed in late-afternoon light. I stop and slip my backpack off my shoulders. “I thought this looked like a good spot.”
Teddy glances around before looking back at me. “For what?”
“Lunch.”
A smile tugs at his mouth. “You actually brought lunch?”
“I told you there was food.”
“I assumed you meant a protein bar and a bottle of water.”
I gasp. “Who do you think I am?”
He laughs as I crouch beside the rock and unzip the cooler section of my backpack.
I spread out a small picnic blanket I’d tucked into the bottom of the bag before taking out two wrapped sandwiches, a container of fruit, a packet of chips, and two brownies.
He watches the pile grow with raised eyebrows. “How long were you planning on keeping me out here?”
“I wasn’t sure how hungry you’d be.”
“I could feed a family of four with that.”
“This is a normal packed lunch.”
He laughs and sits down beside me. “I think your town has a very different definition of normal.”
“It probably does.”
I hand him one of the sandwiches.
He studies it before taking a bite. “Okay. I’m no foodie, but I can tell this bread was made fresh this morning.”
I smile. “You like it?”
“It’s incredible.”
“I’ll let Grandma know. She’ll be thrilled.”
“You didn’t make it?”
“I know my limits.”
He laughs. “And here I was starting to think you did everything.”
“Oh, absolutely not. Baking bread is Aunt Grace and Grandma territory. I stick to not burning the diner down.”
“Comforting.”
“I’ve only nearly done it once.”
He pauses halfway through another bite. “You’re joking.”
“Am I?”
He studies me for another second. “I think so.”
I grin. “You’ll never know.”
He shakes his head, smiling to himself as he reaches for the packet of chips. “You packed my favorite.”
“Salt and vinegar?”
“Yeah.”
“That wasn’t intentional.”
“I’ll choose to believe it was.”
“You’re welcome to live in that fantasy.”
“I will.”
For a while, we eat in comfortable silence as we look out over the valley. A hawk circles overhead, riding the warm air, and somewhere below us I can hear the faint rush of water.
It’s peaceful here with him.
“All right,” he says when we start walking again. “If you were writing an article about me right now, what would the headline be?”
“Oh, that’s easy.”