Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Blaise settled onto the sofa, her back flat against the arm, her legs stretched out in front of her, ankles crossed. On the floor beside her was a tall, insulated cup of ice water.
Beau snored softly nearby on his bed, not a care in the world now that his person was home with him.
She opened her laptop, the familiar noise of it powering up a strangely welcome sound.
Sunlight filtered invitingly through the windows and for a few seconds, she thought about going out onto the porch.
But she’d end up getting distracted, she knew that about herself. If she were out there, able to see what a beautiful day it was, she’d want to go to the beach or hit the pool or something that wasn’t writing.
It was time to work. Any day now, she might get a response from one of the publishers she’d reached out to, and if that happened—which was a big if, she knew that—they would probably want to see the rest of the book.
Telling them she only had the first chapter, which she’d already sent them, wasn’t going to go over well. At least not in her imagination.
She reread the last paragraphs she’d written to get herself back in the story. It was the raw, unvarnished account of how the scam had gone down, how it had affected her, and how it had changed her life.
Even now, her stomach tightened at the memory of typing it out, at having to relive a humiliation she’d done her best to forget about. But it was an honest account of what had happened. And Cece’s emotional reaction after reading it had told Blaise she’d struck the right note.
So where did she go next?
Not forward. Not yet. Readers needed to understand who she’d been before the fall. How she’d gotten from Point A to heartbreak. How she’d built the life she’d lost.
And that meant going back to Jay.
She closed her eyes for a moment, seeing his face. What would he think of this project? Like with everything she’d done, he’d be supportive. He would have told her to go for it.
Eyes opened, her fingers hovered over the keys. She pictured that fateful day in her mind. Then she began writing.
She wrote about the studio first. How the lights had been so bright, the A/C too cold, and the stylist too handsy.
She described the chaos of that shoot, how she imagined it would have looked glamorous from the outside but on the inside it made her feel more like a product than a person.
How she’d been tugged at and adjusted, constantly critiqued.
And always, always talked about as if she wasn’t there.
Except for Jay Monroe, the much-sought-after photographer. He’d been an island of civility in that sea of madness. He’d treated her like a human being.
She paused, letting the memory sharpen, a tiny smile bending her mouth.
He’d stepped between her and the stylist with an easy confidence and a quiet voice that hadn’t needed volume to command authority.
She remembered the exact words he’d used.
He hadn’t been confrontational, just firm enough to make the stylist step back and mutter something about “fixing the hem later.”
Jay had looked at her then, not with pity, not with that condescending “poor thing” expression she’d seen too often in the industry, but with genuine concern.
“You all right?” he’d asked.
“I am now,” she’d answered, her breath catching.
He had been devastatingly handsome. Maybe more so because she knew he didn’t care what he looked like, just that she looked the best she could.
His job depended on it, after all, but she’d realized years later that his pictures always looked so good because he treated people with respect.
He hadn’t made a big deal of intervening on her behalf. He’d simply picked up his camera again and asked her if she wanted a minute before they kept going.
Blaise wrote it exactly the way she remembered, adding the details that seemed to matter and nothing more. No embellishments, just the truth.
She wrote about how he’d made her laugh halfway through the shoot, how he’d caught her off-guard with a stupid joke and she’d ruined the shot, giggling. How he’d used that moment anyway, saying it was the truest picture he’d taken all day.
Then he’d asked her to coffee afterward.
Not dinner. And because of her age, definitely not a drink. She’d been twenty when she’d met him. He’d been twenty-eight. They’d had coffee and become friends, but nothing more than that, despite how she’d tried, until they’d known each other for a year.
She paused, staring at the blinking cursor as Beau rolled over and sighed heavily in his sleep.
Jay had been a really good man. The best. Writing about him hurt, but in that sweet, necessary way. It was like stretching a sore muscle you knew you had to loosen if you were ever going to move forward. And telling this part of her story was a tribute to him.
Blaise took a sip of water, set the cup down, and went back to typing.
There were other stories to tell. How he taught her to see herself beyond the lens, how he’d encouraged her to take risks, how he’d given her the tools to work intelligently with other photographers.
How they’d fallen in love despite most people thinking they’d be over in a couple of months. How they’d built a life without ever expecting it to be cut short.
In a way, this book would be Jay’s story, too, because after she’d met him, there had been no life without him.
So she would do her best to show him to the world. To give them a glimpse of what Jay was really like.
She started to type faster.
Her fingers moved steadily, each sentence pulling up another memory. Some were still sharp around the edges and made her heart hurt. Some had been softened by time and made her smile. A few nearly brought her to tears.
She wrote about Jay’s first coffee date idea, how he’d picked a tiny café tucked next to a bookstore so they could browse the shelves afterwards.
How he’d asked real questions, not the predictable small talk she’d grown used to.
How he’d seemed interested in her not how she looked.
How he’d listened in a way that made her feel visible rather than inspected.
She described how wonderful it had been to be seen as a person instead of a product.
Halfway through a paragraph about their first dinner date, she stopped, flexing her fingers, letting her eyes drift to the corner of the screen. Her email tab sat open, its little notification panel stubbornly blank.
She clicked it anyway.
Nothing. Not a single response from the publishers she’d sent the pitch to.
For a moment, her heart sank. Her inner critic whispered, What if this doesn’t go anywhere? What if you’re writing something no one’s ever going to read?
She shoved the thought aside just as quickly as it had come. This would get read. Even if she had to self-publish it. Cece had already said she’d help Blaise with that, if that’s where things went.
“Not today,” she murmured, closing the email. “I’m doing this. Regardless.”
Beau, without lifting his head, thumped his tail in agreement.
She went back to the document, rereading the last few lines as she remembered the sound of Jay’s laugh. Thought about his strange love for spaghetti sandwiches. The way he always kept a spare camera battery in his pocket because he never wanted to miss a shot.
Blaise’s confidence grew the more she typed. The words were coming easier now. Didn’t mean they were great. This was obviously a first draft, but it was real and she thought that mattered more.
She wrote about their first fight and how it ended with both of them laughing at how hard they were trying. She wrote about Jay teaching her to take pictures herself, how to frame shots and get the best light and find interesting angles.
She paused once more, just long enough to drink a little water, then leaned forward again, determined.
The publishers would respond when they were ready. There was nothing she could do to speed up the process. Or even ensure the answer was the one she was hoping for.
The writing was all she could control now.
And so, she wrote like someone who’d finally accepted that her past—every heartbreak, every mistake, every good thing—was worth putting on the page.
She sank deeper into the cushions, losing track of time as sunlight shifted across the room.
The more she wrote, the more the hesitation eased, and the easier it became.
It was almost like her fingers remembered more than her mind did.
The writing was showing her that she knew this story.
It was hers and not only had she lived it, she owned it.
She wrote about the day Jay proposed. It had been simple and she wasn’t sure he’d planned any of it, which would have been just like him.
Just the two of them having dinner after a long day, indulging in Chinese at his favorite spot, when he’d suddenly gone quiet and looked at her as if he were trying to memorize the moment.
“I don’t want to do any of this without you,” he’d said.
And she’d said yes without even having to think about it, because she’d known. She’d known long before he’d asked. It had always been right between them.
She typed the memory slowly, letting herself feel the ache settle in her heart and recognize that it was better to feel that now than to have never loved Jay. He’d been gone a few years now. But the good he’d left behind remained.
His memory had carried her through the worst of what came later. And it was still present in their son, even if Evan was a bit overprotective.
Beau lifted his head then, as if sensing the melancholy in her. He walked over to the couch and gave a soft, inquisitive huff.
“I’m okay,” she whispered, reaching down to rub behind his ear. “Just thinking about old times.”
He nudged her hand once, satisfied, then hopped up onto the other end of the couch. He did a few circles before laying down.
Blaise returned to the keyboard, the cursor blinking patiently, almost encouragingly. Her past was cemented in time, but her future was still something she had some sway over. Getting this book out there could change the trajectory of her life.
And as she began the next paragraph, she knew that Jay would be more than all right with this. He would be behind her every step of the way. He would want this to happen.
He’d probably tell her to trust her instincts and let the work speak for itself.
She could do that. She just had to keep going.