“Cocktails,” Honey says solemnly.

“No.”

“Cocktails,” she intones. “We’re having some, and I’m buying, so don’t make a big fuss.”

“Fine.”

I don’t feel like cocktails. I feel like crawling into bed and sleeping for as long as humanly possible and then going back to work on projects at Medium Roast. That’s not an option because there are no more projects unless you count opening the store again. I’m not sure I can face that. 

Honey flags down the nearest waiter and orders two glasses of something pink and fruity, and the first sip gives me life. It’s like waking up after sleeping for a straight month and discovering you’re in a tropical resort with hot men on either side of you, fanning you with oversized leaves.

“You were right about the cocktails.”

She takes another long sip of hers. “Let’s get down to business. What are you going to do, Ellie?”

“I don’t—” I take another sip of the fruity goodness and stare at her across the table. “What do you mean? I’ve been working on the shop for days. I can finally—” I can finally do what? Let all those customers back in? Pretend to care about what they’re doing between trips to Medium Roast? Never, ever look across the street at The Coffee Spot again? I can’t glance over there for as long as I live.

“You’ve become obsessed,” Honey says simply, cocking her head to the side so that her perfectly messy bun flops another inch toward the earth. “You did not notice that I moved out, or that I went back to work.”

“That’s not fair. You work weird hours when you’re in a painting phase.”

Honey purses her lips. “It’s not a phase. Don’t try to deflect. It’s time to face facts about Dash.”

Hearing his name squeezes something in my chest.

“You’re in love with him.”

“I am not. I’m over him.”

“Ellie,” she says my name softly, and it brings me back to the truth. I look into the eyes of my best friend since elementary school. They’re full of compassion, and I hate that they have to be like that in this moment. “I see you every day trying to forget him. But when you stop thinking about it, you’re always looking toward that store.”

“I gave him the finger,” I say mournfully, the alcohol already taking effect. “I let him know we were done.”

“You’re not going to be done with this man until you talk to him. So text him. Call him. Do whatever you need to do.”

“I can’t—”

“I’m not done. It’s time to move on from Medium Roast. It’s been, what, three months? You need to be behind the camera.”

A choking panic rises in my throat, but it’s followed immediately by a strange ache. I want to feel the weight of it in my hands. I haven’t touched it since the day I went to the park. Shit, those photos...

“I’m not going back to the city,” I say, and then I take a deep breath to try and release the fear. “I don’t want assignments like that anymore.”

“Nobody’s saying you have to go back to the city,” Honey says with a laugh. “I like it better when you’re here. But there’s no reason you can’t start up a little business. You’re professionally trained, for God’s sake.”

“But I’ve never—”

“You can get the hang of it. I’ll start you a page on Facebook tomorrow. I promise you, you’ll have enough clients to quit Medium Roast by the end of July.”

“I can’t abandon my aunt and uncle.”

“This plan also gives you time to train your replacement. Replacements, if we’re being honest about it. That shop in the summer is not a one-woman job. Even if you are amazing. Which you are.” Honey looks around for the waiter. “Where did he go? We need food.” Then she turns back and eyes my glass. “Drink up. After this, it’s back to work.”

* * *

I can’t find the cord to the camera.

That’s the first obstacle when I get home, the sweetness of the drink still on my tongue. I forgot all about these pictures, and I made a promise. What if they’re terrible?

I rifle through my stuff until I find the cord wedged in my computer bag. The computer itself is under my bed. It takes twenty minutes of charging before it’ll turn on. I make popcorn while the photos load, and then fire up my editing program.

Oh, God, are these terrible?

Once the images are on the screen, my nerves settle a little. I feel like I’m back in school, hunched behind a desk in the wee hours, finding the perfect shot for class.

The first few of this woman—I can’t remember her name—are a little awkward, the composition off. But then one comes up on the screen. Her little girl, framed almost perfectly, holding hands. It’s sharp as hell and lovely.

Maybe Honey does have a point.

I’ve always looked down on these kinds of photography businesses. Aunt Lisa and Uncle Fred didn’t pay for me to become a natural light lifestyle photographer in Lakewood, but the more I look through the images, the more I see that they aren’t bad. That they are actually pretty good. A few adjustments here, a few adjustments there. Make the set look cohesive.

By the time I look up from the computer again, the gallery finished, it’s three in the morning. But I don’t feel tired. I feel awake. I feel alive.

That, plus a decent helping of heartache. I’m buzzing with the accomplishment of editing a stack of nice photos for someone—done on the fly, no less—but there’s nobody here to tell. There’s nobody in my bed waiting for me. The silence is a lonely one.

Fine. I’ll admit it.

I only want that empty space to be filled by Dash.

More than one empty space, really.

With the new burst of energy, I sign up for an online gallery, add a password, and upload the photos. The gallery’s pretty professional for something free. Seeing all the images there makes me feel a funny kind of warmth. I haven’t felt that since...

Since I met Dash.

The woman’s email is on a crumpled piece of paper in my purse. The gallery has an email all ready to go.

Maybe, I think, lying under my covers, still awake. Maybe...