Two more years of being the product rather than the artist followed, until Violet called to say she was moving to Arizona to take over her Uncle Ray’s catering business. I said yes before she finished the sentence.
Because New York never felt like home. Not really. Not in the way people describe home. New York felt like a stage. And I am tired of performing.
New Falls felt different from the first morning I woke up here. The silence. The sky. I walked outside in my pajamas at six a.m., barefoot on the porch, and I cried. Not because I was sad, but because I could finally hear myself think.
I’ve been filling that camera folder ever since.
“Post the sunset one,” Violet says, nodding at my phone. “The horse. From last night. It’s stunning.”
I turn the screen toward her. The golden hour shot, the mountains, the horse, the light that makes everything look like it’s on fire. I smile as I look at it. “It gets a tenth of the engagement my selfies do,” I say with a sigh.
“So?”
“So the selfies pay the bills.”
“Lola.” She levels me with a look. “You have enough savings from ten years of brand deals to live comfortably for the rest of your natural life. Your parents made sure of that, even if half the money came from deals neither of us wants to think about too hard. You don’t need the bills paid. You need to stop being scared.”
I open my mouth. Close it. She’s right. This isn’t about money.
“Post the horse,” she says. “Set up your photography page. Be the Lola you actually are, instead of the one they built.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
Her grin splits her face. “That’s my girl.”
“Don’t. You’ll make me blush.”
She slides out of the booth. “I need to pee. Do not change your mind while I’m gone.”
“I won’t.”
“Lola.”
“I won’t!”
She disappears down the narrow hallway toward the bathrooms. I lean back in the booth and pick up my coffee.
And that’s when I see him.
Through the window, walking past on the sidewalk.
I don’t notice him first. I notice what happens around him.
Two men standing outside the hardware store stop talking mid-sentence. One of them takes a physical step backward. A woman pushing a stroller crosses to the other side of the street without looking up. A group of teenagers on a bench goes silent.
The whole sidewalk rearranges itself around this man like water parting for a stone.
Then I look at him. And my coffee stops halfway to my mouth.
He’s tall. Well over six feet. Built so muscular I’m sure he could pick five of me up with one arm and throw me over his shoulder. A black T-shirt stretched so tight across his chest and arms that I can see the outline of every muscle underneath. The fabric strains across his shoulders and biceps in a way that should be illegal in public.
Tattoos are literally everywhere. Crawling up both arms from hand to sleeve, disappearing under the black cotton, reappearing at his neck.
His black cowboy hat is tipped low over his eyes, covered by Aviator sunglasses that reflect the Arizona sun.
A jaw that could cut glass, covered in stubble. My god.
He reaches a massive black F-250 parked at the curb. And then he’s out of sight, and I realize I haven’t breathed.