10. Sage #2
Her lips twitch, but she nods firmly. “Yep. Your ex is one of the biggest. Which is why it’s time to stop treating everything he told you over the past four years like gospel.
If you want to apply for those residencies, then you should.
If it doesn’t work out, it doesn’t work out.
But you won’t know if you don’t try. Just make sure whatever you do next is because it’s what you want. ”
I place my own mug down and pull her in for a big hug. “How did you get so smart?”
A low chuckle works its way out of her. “I’m not sure smart has anything to do with it. I’ve got more than a few of my own issues, don’t forget. It’s always easier to see the solutions to someone else’s problems than it is to see your own.”
I exhale. “So true, unfortunately.”
“Mommy, Aunty Sage, look,” Ruby pipes up from her seat on the floor.
She holds up a page from her coloring book, showing us the princess she’s colored in all in blue, except for her pink face and long brown hair.
Next to her, Ruby has drawn a stick figure person with a big cowboy hat and a stick figure horse.
The top of the paper is covered in a big, gray blob with zig-zags coming out of it.
“Wow, that’s fantastic,” Mia enthuses. “Bring it here so we can have a look.”
The little girl scrambles up and darts over. “Is this a princess and a cowboy?” I ask as I admire her artwork.
She smiles brightly. “It’s you, Aunty Sage. See?” She points to the princess’s brown hair. “And that’s the cowboy prince who rescued you from the storm. Do you like it?”
I blink, catching Mia’s amused gaze. “Of course I like it,” I tell Ruby. “In fact, I love it. You got the scene just right.”
“It’s just like Mommy told me. You can keep it,” she declares magnanimously.
“Aw, thanks, bug.”
With a nod, she skips back over to her book and makes herself comfortable on the floor again.
“She’s too cute,” I say to Mia.
A laugh escapes her. “Yes, she is, when she’s not being a menace. But tell me, did she really get the scene right?” She points to the big smile on the stick cowboy’s face. “This doesn’t quite look like the reaction you said Holden had.”
“Hmm, that detail might be a little off. Though I have actually seen him almost smile a couple of times since then.”
“There you go. I knew he’d warm up to you. How could he resist your sunny personality?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure he’s into sunny. But we do seem to have reached a truce. He’s even going to give me riding lessons.”
Her brows shoot up. “Really?”
“Yeah. I thought it might be fun to take photos from horseback.”
“I’m sure it would be.”
I nod, nibbling on my lower lip. “Do you do much work out here?”
“Doc does most of it,” she says, “though I do attend calls with him here and there. It’s been a long time since I studied large-animal husbandry at college. I’m still relearning a lot of it.”
“Right, right. And you’ve met the whole family?”
She cocks her head. “Most of them. One of the brothers has been away. River, I think. But I’ve talked to the rest of them. They all seem nice.”
“They do.” I clear my throat. “And Holden used to compete on the rodeo circuit?”
She lets out a peal of laughter. “Oh my god, Sage. You really need to learn the art of subtlety. If you want to know more about your maybe-not-so-grumpy and very hot neighbor, you could have just asked. Believe me, I’d be the last one to judge you.
That man is good-looking enough to turn anyone’s head. ”
Should have known I couldn’t sneak the question past her. “He’s just intriguing, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh.” She tilts her head up, smug. “Well, all I know is that he was a big-deal bull rider. I think he was world champion for a couple of years in a row or something like that. But he got injured last year, and apparently it was bad enough to end his career. That’s why he’s back.”
Is that why Holden seems so much a part of this place, and yet, not fully part of it?
He may have grown up here, but he built his adult life on the rodeo circuit.
Coming back because of an injury couldn’t have been easy.
If he had a choice, would he have come back at all?
“I wonder if he’s going to stay,” I muse, half to myself.
Mia shakes her head. “I wouldn’t know.”
Strangely, the idea that Holden might up and leave any minute sends a pang through my chest. Sadness, not for me—I barely know him—but for his family. They seem close, yet there’s a distance between Holden and the rest of them. And from what I’ve witnessed, they aren’t the ones holding back; he is.
I open my mouth to ask another question, then close it again. I wasn’t intending to talk so much about Holden. And so far, our whole conversation has been about me.
Not cool.
“That’s enough about the McBride family,” I say, firmly shutting the door on my curiosity. “I want to talk about you. Any handsome cowboys turning your head?”
She wrinkles her nose. “No. The last thing I need is a man coming in and complicating my life when it’s finally settling down. Especially not a cocky cowboy.”
“I think you came to the wrong place if you’re trying to avoid cowboys.”
She sighs. “I’m trying to avoid men in general. I’m happy and Ruby’s happy. Why rock the boat?”
“I feel the same way. It’s time to focus on ourselves and what we need for a while.”
“Exactly.” She holds out her mug for a toast.
With a grin, I tap mine to it. “Ruby,” I call out to the little girl. “Come up here and give us cuddles. I want to hear all about your new house and what it’s like living with your Great-Aunt Greta.”
Ruby leaps up and throws herself onto the couch, and we spend the rest of their visit talking about catching frogs and chasing butterflies.
Later, after I’ve waved goodbye from my front porch and retreated to the couch, I think about what Mia said.
With her comments replaying in my head, I pick up my phone and open my Instagram page.
It’s been a while since I’ve checked it.
I have a few thousand followers, but Graham curated most of my posts.
He insisted my social media presence be professional, not just me “chatting about art.”
I snort. What was I thinking listening to him?
It’s been over a month since I last posted, and unsurprisingly, my follower count hasn’t increased much.
I scroll through my previous posts. Most are photos of my work hanging in Graham’s gallery, though a few are images he took of me during photo shoots.
Those always made me self-conscious, but he liked them.
It was one reason he insisted I always be well dressed.
Somewhere along the way, I stopped questioning his opinions because I mistook his control for support.
There isn’t a single photo analysis or explanation of why a composition is effective. No tips for aspiring photographers. It showcases my work but says next to nothing about the person behind it.
Scrolling down farther, I pause at a comment from Graham on one of my posts. I hesitate for a moment, then take a deep breath and tap his name. The moment I’m redirected to his profile, my stomach drops.
The first photo is from a showing at his gallery. The pretty woman standing at his side in front of a large black-and-white photo, all smiles, is the woman he started mentoring six months ago and sleeping with sometime between then and when I walked in on them together.
She looks over the moon.
The pose, the gallery wall, the proud hand at her back. It could have been one of dozens of photographs he’d posted of me over the years. Another young photographer standing beside the man everyone believed had discovered her.
I’m not even angry with her. How can I be, considering I trusted him too?
But I can choose what I do next. If I want to succeed, I can’t sit on my ass and expect people to stumble across my work.
I get up, grab my laptop off the table, and settle back on the couch. After closing the photos I was editing earlier, I open a web browser and pull up the list of residencies I’ve had bookmarked for years.
Spain. Italy. London. Berlin.
I might not have an international reputation, but I’m not applying straight out of college either. I have four years of exhibitions, published work, and a portfolio I’ve spent years building.
The next few hours slip by in a blur of portfolio selections, artist statements, and project proposals. Most of the portfolio and supporting material already exists from my New York work, though I still find myself second-guessing everything I include.
I rewrite the proposal twice before settling on the version that sounds most ambitious. It leans heavily on the urban work I’m known for. It isn’t the only kind of photography I love, but it’s the strongest fit for the portfolio I’ve built.
After that, I comb through photographs from exhibitions, magazine features, and gallery submissions, selecting only the best. Images of forgotten corners of the city, old buildings captured in perfect light, and ordinary moments transformed by careful composition.
Images chosen because they’re striking. Designed to make people stop and look.
Eventually, I hit send on my final submission, then shut my laptop and slump back against the cushions.
Nothing might come of it, but nothing will if I don’t even try.
My future is in my hands. I just have to choose it.