Joe groaned and sat on the couch. “You have always had the biggest mouth.”
She snorted. “I’ve seen your high school yearbook. Your nickname was literally The Mouth, so stop projecting.”
They traded exaggerated glares before Joe turned back to Nathan. “You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to, Nate.”
“She clearly wants him to.”
Nathan held up a hand. “What the hell are you two talking about? Go to what?”
They exchanged another look. Joe stood with his phone in hand. “You really haven’t read about what Rachel’s doing?”
“Or spoken to her at all?” Bobbi added, in a way that meant she had opinions on the subject.
Nathan knew that Rachel was giving him space to work through his issues, and he was trying to do the same for her. She’d kept in touch, but he wouldn’t call their brief texts an actual conversation. It was more like checking for signs of life. They all started the same way, with her asking, How are you feeling today? instead of the typical “Are you okay,” or “Do you need anything” he got from others. Rachel seemed to get that being okay was impossible and that what he needed was for each day to hurt less. But his feelings seemed to shift by the hour. He’d answer—angry or tired or good, but I feel guilty for it—and was always a little lighter afterward, like she’d lifted some of the weight he was carrying.
He wanted to do the same for her but had no idea how. She was being put through a very public ringer, and a huge part of that was his fault. When he would ask the same thing, How are you feeling? it didn’t seem to work the same magic on her. She’d say, Like myself, without much elaboration, and he didn’t feel like it was right to push for anything more.
“I’ve spoken to her a little,” Nathan said. “And the press keeps writing sexist bullshit about her divorce, so I stopped paying attention.” He paused. “Did something happen?”
Joe reluctantly showed him an article on his phone. It was Rachel standing next to the collage that got her in trouble all those years ago. The website had blurred it out, but she stared into the camera with a look that dared whoever was reading to think she should be ashamed.
“It’s some kind of pop-up exhibit,” Joe said. “She’s showing her photography.” He motioned for Nathan to scroll down. There was a picture of a large, open room with photos on the wall. He recognized some of the pictures from when he’d scanned them into files for her.
Nathan looked at Joe. “I can’t believe she did this.”
“Neither can I. They kicked her off three nonprofit boards last week. I had to sit through a rant about how no respectable buyer would put an offer on her house during my last lunch meeting.”
“She sold the house?”
“She’s trying to.” Joe paused. “You really didn’t know any of this?”
“No!” Nathan shoved a hand through his hair. “I was giving her space. She’s in the middle of a divorce, and I was… I was trying not to be a selfish asshole like you told me.”
Bobbi snorted. “You’re taking love advice from this guy? That’s like getting directions from a fish in the desert.” Joe made a half-hearted grunt of protest. Bobbi waved him off and gave Nathan a pointed look. “Read that profile. It’s obvious she wants you there. You should go.”
“Hang on.” Joe blocked Nathan’s view of Bobbi. “Think about this. Your career is just getting started. I know you care about her—”
“I love her,” Nathan said. “I can’t lose someone else either.”
And that’s when Joe faltered. Despite the gaps that would always exist between them, this would be where they connected. The place where they’d both let something slip away and vowed to hold on tighter from now on.
Joe slapped his arm and said, “I’m proud of you,” with the weight of that promise in his voice. Nathan hugged him.
“I’m proud of you too.”
“Fuck.” Bobbi sniffed and dropped her spatula on the counter. Her eyes were damp and red. “Don’t look at me. Breakfast is ready, so just shut up and eat.”
How Rachel Thomas Mastered the Art of Scandal
By Carlos Fitzpatrick
You’ve probably never heard of Rachel Thomas. That’s perfectly fine with the woman herself. “I prefer it. The exhibit is a different experience without all the noise coloring your reaction.” The noise Thomas is referring to is a cascade of tabloid headlines and trending hashtags under her married name, Rachel Abbott. We won’t go into the details of the scandal here (a quick Google search will produce the entire sordid tale, including rumors of an upcoming tell-all memoir penned by Matt Abbott’s mistress) and Thomas doesn’t have much to say about the end of her very public marriage. “People make mistakes. Sometimes painful ones. That doesn’t mean they should be public.” But as we toured the empty office space that houses her debut photography exhibition, it was hard to ignore the optics of the building’s history as Matt Abbott’s campaign headquarters. I asked whether the location was an intentional dig at her ex. “I don’t bully people through my work. But I can’t control what someone takes away from it either. As soon as you hang art on the wall, it isn’t yours anymore. You can’t shape the emotions or assumptions it elicits. That’s pointless and dishonest.”