Chapter 11
ELEVEN
Max
We don't get back from the hospital until well past midnight. I help Kate get Lauren settled, say goodnight, go back to my room, and stare at the ceiling until five-thirty before giving up entirely.
By six I'm dressed. By six-forty-five I’ve finished a quick workout and by seven I'm sweet-talking the catering crew into starting a pot of coffee. By seven-thirty I'm at Lauren's door, greeted by a squinting, sleepy Kate.
“Did Lauren get any sleep?”
“Geez, Max, you're up early,” Damien calls from somewhere inside the suite.
“Always am,” I call out.
Kate steps aside and I walk in carrying two large cups of coffee. Mom's got a full day of activities planned for the guests, starting at nine with a bottomless mimosa brunch. Probably not the best idea after last night, but the Hastings know how to party.
“A few hours,” Kate says. “She's still in the other room, but she managed to hop to the bathroom herself.” She glances toward the closed bedroom door. “It might be a challenge keeping her still today.”
Damien is sprawled on the pull-out sofa, one arm over his eyes. He raises two fingers in greeting without opening them. “Mornin', bro.”
“Comfy?” I ask.
“I've slept in worse places.” He drops his arm and looks up at me, then at Kate. “Great company, though.”
Kate giggles. Damien reaches up and rubs her back.
I look away before I have to witness whatever comes next and direct myself toward the bedroom door. I knock.
“Come in if you have coffee. Stay out if you don't.”
I ease the door open.
She's sitting up against the headboard in a pink tank top, her long dark hair loose over her shoulders.
If it weren't for the cast propped on a pillow, I'd never have guessed she spent half the night in an emergency room.
She looks that fresh. The room smells like soap and coconut something — shampoo, maybe, or lotion — and morning light is coming through the gap in the curtains.
“I anticipated your needs,” I say, handing her the large cup.
She wraps both hands around it, holds it under her nose, and closes her eyes. The expression on her face is one of bliss.
“Thank you,” she says. “You are a genuinely good human.”
She takes a long sip and lets out a groan of satisfaction. “And I am so sorry about your phone. I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up.”
“Don’t give it another thought.” I wander to the sliding glass door and push it open slightly.
The balcony looks out over the Starlight River through the cypress trees, the same gold-green light I’d tried to photograph on the drive back from the lawyers.
I’d meant to glance at it. I stand there a moment longer than I intend to. “I have a backup.”
“Of course you do.”
“I'm prepared for most contingencies.”
“Most?”
“I didn't anticipate the visit to the ER last night.” I glance back at her. “That one was outside my planning parameters. But I think we handled it like champs. Especially you.”
She laughs — a real one, unguarded — and something in my chest does something I'm not going to examine too closely at seven in the morning.
I pull a chair to the edge of the bed and sit with my own coffee. “How's the pain?”
“Manageable. The ibuprofen is doing something. Not everything, but something.” She shifts against the headboard and winces slightly. “Did Dr. Dos Santos really say six weeks?”
“She did.”
She looks at her cast with the expression of someone reading very bad news they'd already suspected. “I need to be in Costa Rica in two weeks.”
“So you said.”
“I emailed my contact at the retreat this morning. Got up at six.” She pauses. “I know that sounds insane given the circumstances.”
“It sounds like someone who takes their work seriously.” I sip my coffee. “What did the retreat say?”
“Nothing yet. It's early.” She pulls at a loose thread on the duvet. “If they can't reschedule, I lose the placement. There are a hundred other influencers lined up for that spot.”
“If they can't reschedule a trip because their guest broke her ankle in an accident, they're not worth working with.”
She looks at me. “That's a very logical position.”
“It's the only position that makes sense.”
“The world of luxury wellness retreats doesn't always run on logic, Max.”
“Everything runs on logic eventually,” I say, and she grins like she's storing that away to use against me later.
“You could stay here,” I say. “After the wedding. The resort's closed for renovations, but this wing is finished. It would be quiet. You can stay for free. Better than trying to navigate an airport with a cast.”
She tilts her head. “You'd want me here while you're managing contractors?”
“You'd be a considerable improvement over contractors.” I pause.
“You could also photograph the place. I've been trying to figure out how to present it properly to prospective buyers, and my sister put up surf photos that look more like Hawaii than Florida. I want something that actually captures what this place is.”
She's quiet for a moment, looking at her coffee. “You know what’s weird? Last night, before I fell asleep, I kept thinking about the spring. Or maybe I was hallucinating. The light through those cypress trees is unreal. Like something from another planet.”
“I know. I think I took it for granted when I was growing up here.”
“Has anyone ever photographed the springs properly? Not the tourist shots — I mean really photographed them.”
“Not that I know of.” I watch her face, where something is shifting. A kind of focus coming into her eyes that wasn't there a moment ago.
“I was a photography major,” she says. “At the Art Institute in Chicago.
That's where I met Kate.” She turns the coffee cup in her hands.
“Before the influencer gig took over, I used to photograph places that made me feel something.
Not for content. Just because something about the light or the geometry of a place would hit me, and I'd have to get it down.”
“I know,” I say.
She looks up. “You do? What?”
“I looked at your Instagram last night. After we got back from the hospital and I couldn't sleep.” I pause.
“The photos of you are gorgeous, obviously. You know that. But the other ones — the landscapes, the morning light at the temple in Kyoto, the children on the street in Rome — those are the ones I kept going back to.” I set my coffee down.
“You have a real gift, Lauren. The kind that doesn't come from an app or a filter.”
She's very still for a moment.
“No one says that,” she says finally. “Everyone talks about the engagement metrics. Or the brand reach. Or whether the color palette for the feed is cohesive.” She looks down at her coffee. “No one talks about the Rome photos.”
“Well. The Rome photos are the ones that stay with you.”
She doesn't say anything for a moment, and I don't push. Outside, a bird chirps.
“If I stayed here for a while,” she says eventually, “and I photographed the springs. The resort. The river. I'd want to do it properly. With real equipment.”
“That's exactly what I'd want.” I mean it completely. “Do you have equipment, or, I don’t know, can we rent it?”
She studies me for a second as if checking whether I'm serious. I hold her gaze.
“I have some with me. I always travel with my camera gear,” she says. “I'll think about it.”
“Think about it while I get you some breakfast. Would you like a muffin, or a sandwich? I also saw some croissants downstairs.”
“You don't have to—”
“I know.” I stand. “But I'm going to. And I’ll bring a refill.”
I leave and find more coffees, grab some baked goods, and return to her room. When I come back she's rearranged herself against the headboard with a look of stiff-legged discomfort she's trying to hide.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” I ask.
“A little.”
I sit at the foot of the bed and, without overthinking it, reach for her good foot and wrap both hands around it.
“Oh,” she says, surprised.
I begin working the arch with my thumbs, the way our team physiotherapist used to do after the long runs I did obsessively in my twenties.
“You don't have to—” she starts.
“I want to.”
She makes a small sound and lets her head fall back against the pillows. Outside the cypress trees sway in a morning breeze off the Starlight River.
After a few minutes I glance up.
Lauren is asleep, her lips slightly parted, her coffee still warm on the nightstand and the croissant sitting next to it.
I stay for another moment, looking at her. Then I set her foot down gently, stand, and cover her with the duvet. Then I slip out of the room.
Damien and Kate are curled together on the pull-out, also both asleep. Looks like we won’t be at brunch at nine.
I stand in the middle of the room for a moment, thinking about the Rome photos. About the springs. About how Lauren’s beautiful eyes seem to tug at something deep inside of me.
I let myself out quietly and go back to work. It's what I'm best at.
For now.