Chapter 21 Lauren
TWENTY-ONE
Lauren
My thumbs feel like icicles as I text my father. I’m waiting for Max to pick me up outside the resort’s front door.
I don’t know how long I’ll be in the States. Not coming to Ohio. Broke my ankle and am not too mobile at the moment. Staying here in Florida with Kate.
He responds immediately.
Sorry to hear that. Any chance you could send us a little something? Things are tight. Your mother’s not been well. Saw your posts from Italy and figured those brands must have paid well.
I stare at the screen and sigh. The familiar heaviness settles in — not quite anger, more like a deep and tired recognition. This is the pattern. It has always been the pattern.
I won’t be sending money, Dad. Let’s talk on the phone if you want to have a real conversation.
I put the phone in my bag and breathe.
I’m waiting outside the resort for Max to pick me up; he’s been in town at a bank meeting.
We’re having dinner at his parents’ house tonight and I’ve been anxious about it all day in a way that’s entirely new for me.
In years of dating I’ve never reached the stage where someone’s parents wanted to have dinner with me.
This feels significant in a way I’m not ready to examine.
My phone chimes.
It’s Gio. “Tesoro, we’re having the most fabulous party next week at the Villa. A new sparkling water brand — very spiritual! I’d love for you to come.”
Then six brand emails in a row. A vitamin supplement shaped like a crystal. Leggings that promise to “align your chakras.” A line of aura-cleansing candles. For dogs.
I snort out loud.
My phone rings — why all this activity now, of all nights — and it’s a Cypress Grove number I don’t recognize. I answer.
A woman named Diana introduces herself as the owner of a gallery on Magnolia Street. She’s been hearing about my photography, she says. She’d love to show some of my work
“Five pieces to start, a small feature. Would you be willing to come in and discuss it?”
“Absolutely,” I say quickly before I’ve thought it through.
After I hang up I sit for a moment, a warmth spreading through my chest, quick and real. A gallery. An actual gallery, asking for my real photographs. Not a campaign. Not a partnership. My work. This instantly boosts my mood after Dad’s text.
I can’t wait to tell Max.
His SUV pulls up. He steps out in jeans and a white linen shirt and I feel my whole body orient toward him like a compass finding north.
“You’re down here early,” he says, wrapping his arms around me. “I figured I’d have to come up to your room.”
“Needed some air.” I press a kiss to his jaw. “You smell good.”
“Ready for Angus and Ginger?” He opens my door for me and I slide in. He settles into the driver’s seat and doesn’t start the car.
“I have some news,” he says.
My mood lifts even higher. “I do too.”
“You first.”
“No, you.”
He leans over the middle console and rubs his nose against mine — something he does, this small sweet thing.
“We signed the legal papers today. Natalia and I are going to run the resort. I’m staying in Cypress Grove.” He cups my face lightly.
“Congratulations,” I say, kissing him softly. “I love this.”
He nuzzles my cheek. “After Dad and I worked it out, I had another idea. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Tell me.”
“Now that I’m running the place —” he starts the engine and pulls out — “I want you to handle the social media. Promote the Magnolia Grand on your Instagram, build us some accounts, work your magic with content. You’d be amazing at it.
I’d pay you, of course. But we’d want to do a brand partnership with you, too. ”
The warmth drains out of me so fast I feel the cold replace it.
We pass the bookstore. The café. The park with the majestic palm trees.
“Free advertising,” he adds. “A million and a half followers, Lauren. It would be perfect for us.”
“Free advertising.”
I turn to face the passenger window and watch the pretty homes pass by. My eyes are hot and dry.
“What do you think?” He squeezes my hand. “You in?”
“Yeah.” My voice comes out flat and robotic and I can hear it but can’t seem to fix it. “I’ll think about the best approach.”
“You’re so smart about this stuff. Oh — what was your news?”
The gallery. Diana. Five photographs on a wall.
“Oh.” I wave my hand. “Just the doctor. Said I’m healing well.”
We pull into his parents’ driveway.
Dread sits in my chest like a stone.
Dinner goes smoothly. It goes so well I hate myself a little for how wonderfully I get on with his parents.
Angus is salty and wonderful, his punk rock band stories growing increasingly improbable as the evening progresses.
Ginger’s lasagna is a religious experience.
Max helps serve, does the dishes, teases his mother throughout in a way that makes her beam.
I work hard not to look at him doing this because it’s too charming, and charm is not what I need right now.
“Tell us about your photography,” Ginger says, refilling my water.
“I studied at the Art Institute in Chicago,” I say. “I used to photograph sacred sites, places where the light does something you can’t manufacture. Before the brand work took over.” I pause. “I’ve been thinking about getting back to that kind of work while I’m here.”
Ginger’s face lights up. “Max mentioned that too, actually. He called Diana at the gallery on Magnolia Street — do you know it? They’d love to show some of your photographs. He said five pieces to start.” She beams. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
The room goes very slightly sideways. He called the gallery. He urged the gallery to set up a show of my photographs. Without asking me. Without telling me.
He’d already been there. Already made decisions about my art. Already arranged something — well-meaning, generous, and completely without my consent. Probably as an incentive to get me to stay and help the resort’s brand.
“That’s… very thoughtful,” I hear myself say.
Max catches my eye across the table. He looks pleased.
I look away.
“Limoncello,” Angus announces. “Who’s in?”
“Me,” I say.
Max gives me a puzzled look as Angus pours.
“To Lauren,” Ginger says, lifting her glass. “And how glad we are to have her in our lives.”
“To Lauren,” Max says. “The best thing to come out of Damien and Kate’s wedding.”
I swallow the shot in one go, and am mostly silent for the next half hour. On the drive home the car is quietly awkward.
“Something is off,” Max says. “My parents loved you, so why did you go all silent?”
“The dinner was lovely.”
“Something happened.”
I fold my arms. “You asked me to handle the resort’s social media.”
“Because you’re brilliant at it —”
“And you called the gallery.”
A beat. “I — yes. Diana’s an old friend. I thought your photographs in a local gallery would be —”
“My photographs,” I say. “My work. My decision. Was that a perk of working for you?”
He goes quiet.
“You arranged a show of my art without asking me. Without telling me. You made a decision about the one thing I guard most carefully.” My voice is level and I hate how level it is.
“And in the same conversation you asked me to handle the resort’s Instagram.
You want my platform for free advertising.
” I look at him. “Did you think about what I wanted? Or just what would work for you? Or only how I would help you and the resort?”
“I was trying to do a nice thing,” he says. The genuine confusion on his face is almost worse than if he’d known. “Both of those—”
“I know you didn’t mean to.” I push the door open. “That’s almost the worst part.”
I get out of the car. Max stays beside me.
“I thought I was doing a good thing,” he says, and not in a nasty or argumentative way. His expression is almost clueless and that makes me profoundly sad. “Both of those things… I thought that's what we were doing. Together.”
“I know you did.” And I do know, which is why my eyes are burning. “But tonight it didn't feel that way.”
He stills. When he doesn’t speak, the words almost tumble out of my mouth.
“What if I can't give you anything? What if I stop being useful to the resort, to your plans, and there's nothing left? What do you want from me then?”
He looks at me like I've said something in a language he doesn't speak. “Lauren —”
“I'm serious. Everyone who's ever needed me needed something specific. My dad needs money. Brands need content. Tonight you need my platform and my photographs.” My voice cracks on the last word. “I don't know how to be wanted for nothing.”
“That's not —” He stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “That's not what this is.”
“I know,” I say. “I think I know that. I just need to think.”
I press the key card to my door.
“I don't want to lose this,” I say quietly. I'm not sure if I mean him, or Cypress Grove, or the version of myself I've been finding here. Maybe all three.
“Okay,” he says. Just that.
I close the door and hope he doesn’t see the tears.