Chapter 3 Collins #2
There was a point in time where I didn’t have to lie—when the jobs were rolling in, when the photo story was published in Blue Sky Geographic and then went worldwide. The national photography award, and all the slightly smaller ones that came after it.
But that was a well that ran dry over a year ago. They didn’t know about that, though. As far as they knew, everything was fucking peachy.
I watched Clarke douse her eggs in hot sauce before she pushed the bottle over to me to do the same. I scooped some eggs onto my toast, took a bite, and let it go quiet.
—
The outfit Clarke picked out was surprisingly good, despite our different taste.
She liked a lot of color—powder blue, light green, some deep reds every now and then.
Red looked great with her features. I generally wore a lot of black or brown—a product of my profession, I guess.
Darker colors let me fade into the background, like camouflage.
It helped me move stealthily through life while holding my camera—capturing places and moments as they were meant to be seen—naturally, not staged.
So I felt totally comfortable in Clarke’s black trousers and sleeveless mock-neck top.
The Doors filled the cab of my dad’s truck as Clarke drove us into town. It was still drizzling a little, but nothing compared to yesterday.
Out the passenger-side window, Sweetwater Peak looked the same way it always did—rain or shine, winter or summer, fall or spring: mostly quaint, but if you stared too long, a little…
eerie. I don’t think anyone would notice it at first look—that half the charming storefronts were abandoned, that the pavilion in the town square was in disrepair, or how the west corner of town never totally came out of the shadows because of its position underneath the mountain.
Sweetwater Peak is a town built on chipped paint and cigarette butts and things that go bump in the night. It’s also fluffy white clouds and saltwater taffy and mountain breezes.
And I love it.
I also hate it. It’s complicated. It’s simple. I don’t really know how to explain it. It’s just…Sweetwater Peak.
Clarke brought the truck to a stop in front of what I assumed was Brady’s. It was a two-story storefront. The second story was an apartment. I’d known it existed but had never been in it before. That was about to change.
“Do you want me to come in with you?” Clarke asked without cutting the engine—a sign that she wanted to come in with me as much as I wanted her to, which was not at all.
I lolled my head to the side to look at her. “I’ll survive,” I said. “Do you think his eyes are still fucked?”
“Probably,” Clarke said with a laugh. When we were juniors in high school, Clarke tried to sneak a boy—Brendan Ridgeway—in through the basement window.
They had their wires crossed about the time he was supposed to show up, and I was still watching television in the basement.
I heard the window creak open, and when I looked up and saw half of someone’s body through it—not a faded, ghost body but a living, substantial one—I freaked.
Live humans were way scarier than dead ones—at least as far as ghosts went.
I haven’t had any experience with zombies—the other variety of dead human.
My dad had gotten both of us pepper spray for each of our keychains for the car we shared. Mine was in my backpack right next to me, so, just like last night, I sprayed first and asked questions later.
Whoops.
“I never learn.” I shrugged.
“I’ll come by at lunch—bring you some of Mom’s leftovers from yesterday,” Clarke said. “And we’ll probably have dinner at the shop tonight.”
Shop dinners—a Cartwright family classic.
“Sounds good.” I took a deep breath and pushed the passenger door open.
“Thank you, Clarke. I love you.” For better or worse, my sister was my other half.
She was my rock, even if I wasn’t hers. Maybe I was her wind—something that blew in and out as it pleased and made messes.
But every once in a while, maybe I pushed something in the right direction.
Or perhaps that was just wishful thinking.
Clarke reached across the bench seat and squeezed my hand for a second before I got out. I didn’t have a doubt in my mind that Clarke knew something was off with me. We were like that.
“Love you.”
When Clarke pulled away, I looked at my watch—the same skinny silver vintage one I’d been wearing since I was sixteen. Eight-fifty-five. Of course my sister would get me here five minutes early. I, however, preferred to be right on time.
I thought about walking around the block—twice, probably—but decided not to. Thinking about it got me to eight-fifty-six, at least.
I couldn’t see through the windows on Brady’s shop with the way the sun was shining on them, but Coop’s Upholstery was painted on both of them in large, vintage letters. Cute.
The paint around the windows, on the other hand, was chipped and flaky. The sealant at the edges was blistered and cracked, and the actual glass was the slightest bit warped—probably from years of extreme weather.
This storefront used to be a bait and fly shop, but that was way before I was born.
It has also been a saddle shop and a travel agent—that one didn’t last very long.
The last time I had been home, it was abandoned—like half of the street was.
The things that stood the test of time were the saltwater taffy place, a cobbler, a few places to eat, two other bait shops, a mercantile, and a tailor.
An upholstery shop would probably work here—I didn’t know for sure, though. I had to go inside first.
I looked down at my watch again. Eight-fifty-nine.
Well, now felt like as good a time as any. I reached out and pulled the door open. Before I even stepped over the threshold, I could smell leather and new fabric.
The space was open. There were a lot of workbenches near the back with piles of fabric on them and both a love seat and a couch elevated on platforms. It looked like both of them were still in process. It was bright, too—the light from the windows reached all the way to the back of the store.
“Hey.” I heard a man’s voice coming from my left.
Brady was coming down the stairs that I assumed went to the apartment.
“Right on time.” He looked different in the day, but that was probably just because I could actually see him.
His hair was dark. It was longer than I thought, too—tucked behind his ears.
He looked like he spent a lot of time in the sun.
I was right about his eyes, though. They were light.
Blue. And red—irritated, still. That tugged at my sternum a little.
I felt…guilty, kind of. I am no stranger to guilt, so it’s easily identifiable, but I was a stranger to feeling bad for a man—men in general, honestly.
Especially for something I did to them. Normally, I wouldn’t think twice about it.
Brady is good-looking. And I don’t mean that in any sort of way. Just that he’s good-looking enough for me to notice. I fought the urge to straighten my necklace or my shirt or untuck my hair from behind my ears. It’s not like I cared if he thought I was good-looking too.
“Good morning,” I said, and reached my hand out—trying to remember professional courtesy or whatever. This was my boss, after all. “I’m, um, really sorry again, about last night.”
Brady visibly flinched, and I felt the guilt tug at me again. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, and then took my hand in a firm handshake. I could feel the calluses on his palms.
“Um, are your eyes okay?” Why did it feel like I was blushing? I didn’t blush. I wasn’t a blusher.
“Fine,” he said, and gave me a tilted smile. Well, shit. Apparently, I was a blusher. “Flushed ’em good, consulted Dr. Google, and all is well.”
“I’ve never been very good at first impressions,” I said.
I realized I was still shaking his hand.
It was too late to pull it back without it being weird, but continuing to shake it was also weird.
I decided the lesser of the two evils was to just let this roll on.
“But I think that one might take the cake.”
Brady huffed a laugh. “Well, we can try again. Brady Cooper,” he said with that same tilted smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Collins Cartwright.” I smiled back against my better judgment.
“Fuckup extraordinaire,” he responded. His eyes were probably pretty when they weren’t tomato red. “I remember.”
I nodded, and decided now was a good time to pull my hand out of his. When I did, Brady looked down like he didn’t realize they were still linked, but he recovered quickly and slipped his hand back into the pocket of his jeans.
“So, you ready to get started?” he asked.