11. Skylar
“He’s here.” Poppy rapped on her door.
Skylar took one final glance at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.
The girl staring back appeared polished and put together.
The soft fabric of the black dress skimmed her hips and fell just above her knees.
Poppy had good taste. The neckline was modest enough for a university function but low enough to make her forget she’d been wearing an apron two hours ago.
She’d borrowed heels too. Black, simple, high enough to make her calves look lean. She’d probably regret them by the end of the night, but for now, they transformed her into a woman worthy of standing beside the star quarterback.
Her stomach flipped at the thought. She pressed a hand to her abdomen, willing the nerves to settle and opened the bathroom door.
Charlie stood in the living room in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her entire wardrobe.
The jacket was tailored to his broad shoulders, the white shirt crisp and the blue and gold tie screamed Go Thorndale Titans.
His blond hair was styled back from his face, and when he turned at the sound of her footsteps, his blue eyes went wide.
He stared.
Skylar’s skin heated under the weight of his gaze.
“Wow.” The word snagged somewhere in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed. “You look . . . wow.” One corner of his mouth lifted, lopsided, as if the rest of his face hadn’t caught up.
She twisted her fingers. “You clean up okay yourself.”
“Thanks.” His gaze dropped. “Are you ready?”
“I just need to grab my clutch.” She turned toward her bedroom.
“Hey.” He crossed the room, then stopped. His hand twitched at his side. “Do you think you could show me your photos. The ones you took at the diner?” She opened her mouth to say they had to go but he stepped forward. “Fair is fair. You read my piece for class this week.”
Her chest warmed at the memory. Before class on Thursday, he’d slid his phone across the table and asked her opinion on his five hundred words. The piece about driving to Thorndale for the first time. She’d read it twice, struck by the rawness hiding beneath the careful prose.
Charlie stood in the doorway to her bedroom, careful not to cross the threshold uninvited. She opened her laptop, wincing at the grinding sound the machine made as it woke up.
“This thing is held together by spite and prayer,” she muttered.
“How old is it?”
“Five years. Six?” She pulled up her photo folder. “It crashes if I try to edit more than three photos at once, but it gets the job done.”
He moved closer, peering over her shoulder at the screen.
Images filled the display. The diner at golden hour, light streaming through checkered curtains.
Frank’s hands shaping a burger patty. Rosa laughing, flour dusting her cheeks.
A customer’s weathered face, lines deepened by decades of stories.
“These are incredible.” His shoulder pressed closer to hers, leaning into the screen. “The way you capture people . . . it’s like you see straight through to who they actually are.”
“That’s the goal.” She clicked through a few more. “Photography is about truth. The camera doesn’t lie.”
A picture of Charlie popped up. Elbows resting on the counter, phone in hand, engrossed in the act of writing.
She’d caught him through the kitchen door window, a scratch of rust on the round metal frame.
A different kind of spotlight. She’d drained the saturation and amped up the contrast. He wasn’t the golden boy on a football field. He was a man in his element.
She glanced up. He wasn’t watching the screen but taking in the two framed photos on her desk.
“Did you take these?”
“No.” Skylar’s throat tightened. “Those were my mother’s.”
Charlie moved closer to the frames. The first showed two young girls in the midst of chaos.
A flood cleanup, people hauling sandbags and debris in the background.
But the camera had found stillness at the center.
A dark-haired girl held out an apple to an elderly man sitting on a ruined porch.
Beside her, an older girl with the same dark hair wrapped a blanket around the man’s shoulders.
“That’s you?” Charlie’s lips twitched.
“And my sister, Kate.” The name scraped against something raw. “I was eight. She was ten. There was a bad flood that spring. The whole town came out to help.”
“My mom won a regional contest with this photo. The theme was ‘Show your town’s best attribute.’” Skylar’s mouth curved, but the familiar ache behind her ribs didn’t ease. “She said the best thing about Ironwood was that no one went through hard times alone.”
Charlie studied the image. “She was talented.”
“She was.” Skylar moved to stand beside him. “The camera she won was the one that broke at the fair.”
His jaw tightened. “Skylar—”
“It’s okay. I’m not . . .” She shook her head. “I’m telling you so you understand. That camera wasn’t just equipment. It was her legacy. Her way of seeing the world.”
Charlie’s gaze shifted to the second photo. Darker. Harder. Peeling paint and broken windows. Exposed wiring snaking through cracked walls like veins in rotting flesh.
“And this one?”
Skylar’s arms crossed over her chest. The old armor, sliding into place. “That one got her in trouble.”
The constant ire that lived in her chest burned her throat, but she didn’t want to let the bitterness into the room. Charlie stood there, patient and quiet, his stillness an invitation she hadn’t expected to accept.
“My mother started documenting housing violations in our town. Landlords who collected rent but don’t fix anything dangerous.
” The words dragged from the place she kept locked.
“Ironwood is a small town and the Heffernan family is like royalty. They owned half the business and rental properties. Most of their buildings were falling apart. Riddled with lead paint, black mold, and wiring that should have been replaced decades ago.”
Charlie went very still.
“She took photos of every violation she could find. Published them in the local paper.” Skylar’s fingers dug into her arms. “The Heffernans threatened to sue for defamation. They said her claims were exaggerated. The paper backed down and retracted the story. My mother lost her freelance contracts.”
“They made an example of her.” His hands closed into fists. “And then they let the houses keep rotting.”
“A year and a half later, our house caught fire.” Skylar stared at the photo of exposed wiring, her vision blurring. “It was Christmas. I stayed over at my grandparents’ house that night. A few streets away.”
She stopped. Her chest had gone tight, pressure building behind her ribs like water against a dam.
Each word cost her. “The fire started in the walls. Faulty electrical wiring. The same wiring my mother had photographed and reported and begged someone to fix.”
“Shit.” His breath left him like he’d taken a hit to the chest. “Skylar.”
“Kate was fourteen.” The dam was cracking now, words spilling through the fractures. “She was supposed to be the one at Thorndale. The scholarship, this legacy thing from my mother’s side? It was meant for her. She was smarter than me. More talented. She would have done incredible things.”
Her lungs seized. She dug her nails into her palms until the sting brought her back. “But Kate died in her bedroom. I survived because I wasn’t home. Because I was a few streets away, eating cookies with my grandmother, while my family—” She couldn’t finish.
Charlie’s hand reached toward her. She saw the movement in her peripheral vision, saw his fingers stretch toward her arm. Then he stopped and let his hand fall to his side.
She had to expel the bile now, finish the story.
“The Heffernans never faced any consequences. They hired lawyers and paid settlements to avoid court. The insurance company blamed my parents for the fire. They insisted it was tenant negligence because of Christmas lights.” A bitter laugh escaped.
“Christmas lights. Like a string of bulbs caused decades of rotting wires to finally give out.”
“That’s not—”
“Fair? Just? Right?” She turned to face him. “No. It’s not. But that’s what money does. It makes problems disappear. It makes accountability optional. It means you can kill a family and walk away without a scratch.”
Charlie’s face had gone pale. His blue eyes glistened, and he looked away before she could read what was in them.
“That’s why you reacted the way you did,” he said quietly. “At the hospital. When I offered the money.”
“I saw a rich man write a check to make a problem disappear. Just like they did.” She swiped at her cheeks, angry at the wetness there. “We should go.”
She turned and grabbed her clutch.
“Skylar.” He stepped closer. “I’m sorry. For all of it.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” She kept her back to him, steadying herself. “You’re not them.”
Silence stretched between them. She heard him exhale slowly. In the reflection of her laptop screen he pointed to the camera box on her desk. “You should open it.”
“Charlie—”
“Not for me. For your mother.” He faced the photos on the desk. “She saw the world a certain way. She taught you to see it too. That camera is just a tool, Skylar. It’s not a betrayal to use it.”
She turned to look at him, chin lifting. “My phone takes decent shots.”
“Decent isn’t good enough for what you do.” He met her eyes. “You’re too talented for decent.”
Her hand drifted to her collarbone. She caught herself and dropped it. “The Dean is expecting us.”
They drove in silence through the dark streets, the McLaren taking corners with ease. “Sorry about this.” Charlie gestured to the maze of lights and screens that made up the sports car’s dashboard. “My father insists. There will be press at the event tonight, and he wants the publicity.”
Everything about the car screamed money in a way that made her skin prickle. “The Carnell brand on full display.”