ON DAY FOUR of Mia-hiatus, I call her, and after we’ve had a long conversation about things, I drive over to her studio. I push the door open when I get there and take a moment to admire the photographs she has hanging on the wall. She’s changed them all since my last visit. To the right, there’s a black and white photo of a woman lying in bed. She’s facing away from the camera, and the white bed sheets are bunched up at her bottom, so all you see is the curve of her naked back and lush black hair covering half of her shoulder. The lighting and the pose create a photo that is absolutely stunning. The wall facing the door features a family: The dad is wearing brown corduroy pants, a navy blue, button-down shirt, and, on his head, a Chewbacca mask that covers his face. The small boy beside him is dressed similarly and wears a storm trooper mask. Mom stands on the other side of their son and wears tight brown pants, a white shirt, and has styled her brown hair like Princess Leia. As I laugh at how adorable it is, I startle when Mia rounds the corner to greet me.
I glance down and notice she’s wearing a red wrap dress and no shoes, which is funny because I’m wearing the same dress in black. We give each other a quick onceover and laugh.
“Hi,” I say sheepishly.
“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you sold that painting,” she replies, repeating what she said in our phone call.
“It’s okay. I was fine. I’m sorry I said what I said—it wasn’t my place.”
We both let out a breath and walk forward with our arms held out, wrapping the other in a tight hug.
“You’re such a bitch sometimes,” she says against my neck.
“It’s why we’re friends.” We pull away from each other, and I look back at the wall in front of us. “I really love this picture.”
Mia smiles. “Isn’t it awesome? It’s their Halloween card this year.”
“That one is stunning,” I say, nodding at the one of the woman’s back.
“Yeah, boudoir shoot for her soon-to-be husband. Lovely girl.” She turns her blue eyes to me. “When are you going to let me shoot one of those for you? You’d be perfect.”
I make a noise. “I would suck at that. I don’t know how to look sexy on purpose.”
Mia laughs. “That’s what makes sexy, sexy! If you try too hard, you end up looking like an idiot. I’ll help you though—you know I know how to work my magic.”
“Yeah, clearly,” I say, waving around her studio.
“Hey, do you want to be in a shoot for me this weekend?”
“A shoot? I came to take you out to lunch and grovel for forgiveness, not schedule a sexy shoot!”
“I know, but I have this model I’m shooting, and the girl just canceled on us because she’s too sick to do it, and to top it off, this is a major shoot for a local magazine, and I’m supposed to have these pictures to them by next week. This is huge, Elle. This could be my moment.”
“Shit,” I say, letting out a slow breath.
“Yeah, shit. Every model I’ve worked with has given me a ‘maybe,’ and I can’t deal with maybe right now.”
She looks like she’s about to cry, and I hate to see her this stressed over a job.
“Okay. I’ll do it,” I say. I mean, I’ve done this for her before. How bad can it be?
“Ah! Thank you!” she says, giving a little jump and hugging me again.
“Is this . . . okay, remember that time you made me take pictures with a guy on the beach? Is this like that?” That wasn’t so bad until Wyatt showed up. We’d been frolicking in the water and doing our best not to look at the camera and pretend we had chemistry—which is hard to do with a guy you don’t know, no matter how cute he is.
By the time we got comfortable with each other—comfortable enough to go in for the make-believe “we’re about to kiss” shot—Wyatt showed up. He made me so nervous, I couldn’t get back to feeling natural with the guy. Needless to say, that was strike one for him in Mia’s book. It was terrible.
Mia’s laugh snaps me back from my thoughts. “No, this will be indoors and much more intimate, so it’s a good thing you haven’t found a boyfriend yet.”
“Yeah, thank God for that,” I say halfheartedly, before I let her get back to work and head to my own studio. I make a mental note to grab a sandwich along the way.
Later, as I’m setting up for the kids to arrive, I get a text message from Oliver that makes me frown.
Rule #1-no short dresses.
I stare at it for a long moment, look down at myself, then outside to see if he’s stalking me.
Are you stalking me?
??
Are you watching me from somewhere right now?
The phone starts to vibrate with his name on the screen.
“Does that mean you’re wearing a short dress right now?” he asks in a whisper.
“Yes, and from the sound of your voice, I’m guessing you’re in the hospital.”
“How short?” he asks, ignoring my statement.
“Friends, Oliver,” I remind him.
“Just tell me how short it is, for the love of God. I need a visual.”
“Just above my knees.”
“What color?”
“Black.”