After a weekend full of wallowing in the emotional turmoil in my life, the very last thing I’m mentally prepared for is the photo shoot I have with Lyla Kettler this afternoon. I’m somewhat more recharged than I normally would be after a breakup though, thanks to spending Saturday and Sunday on the phone with Corinne, drowning my sorrows in obscene amounts of ice cream.

Now I’m standing in my studio looking at the mess I need to clean up before Mario—the photographer I managed to pull some strings with to get him here ons such short notice—shows up with his crew. Thankfully there’s not much to do; just right a couple of chairs, and clean up a few drops of blood on the floor. Somehow that turns into an impromptu rearranging of some furniture, just because I don’t want to remember anything that happened here that night. Making it look completely different is a good first step.

Once I’ve done that, the snacks and drinks I ordered for the crew arrive. I set some out in the few bowls that I have, and put the cans and bottles in the fridge. By the time I’m finished, I’ve worked myself into a sweaty mess, and I barely have twenty minutes to take a shower and make myself presentable.

I manage to get out of the shower with five minutes to spare, but I don’t want to put my sweaty clothes back on. I dig out a pair of capris that I keep here for emergencies, and put on the wrap top that I finished up the other day, just because I want something that’ll help me feel pretty since I’ve been crying my eyes out all weekend.

I could use the pick me up.

Lyla arrives with her manager, and she’s as sweet as I remember her being. Mario follows shortly after, and while he’s setting up, I go through the outfits I picked out with Lyla.

It pretty much goes downhill from there.

Mario complains about everything: the backdrops, the lighting, the food, the fact that I didn’t buy his favorite brand of sparkling water. Lyla, bless her, shoots me sympathetic looks and takes me aside to chat between setups. He doesn’t like the last couple of outfits that I’ve picked out, and absolutely hates the way they look in the lighting. I’m not sure what exactly he’s looking at, because from what I can see Lyla looks amazing. Radiant, even, despite Mario’s complaints about the lighting.

I guess we’re all our own worst critics.

He makes me bring out about ten different versions of clothes I borrowed from various boutiques throughout the city. I try not to bristle too much when he complains, because he’s doing me a favor by being here at all. But I’m good at my job, and I know what clothes bring out the best in women, so it’s tough to take his criticisms in stride.

When he finally decides on outfits he likes, he still manages to complain about them while he’s taking photos. Lyla grins and bears it, but I take her aside and promise her drinks—my treat—if we make it out of this alive.

Mario’s assistants take it all in stride, but as the hours drag on everyone seems to be getting antsy. Finally we’re down to the final outfit change, and there’s this anxiety that’s settled over the entire room because we all just want this to be over with already. Of course Mario has an issue with the outfit he okayed just fifteen minutes ago. He makes Lyla change her shirt five times before he turns away in frustration.

He looks at me, and I prepare myself to get yelled at for some ridiculous reason.

Instead, he points at my shirt and says, “That. I want that.”

I look down at my shirt like an idiot who can’t understand simple words. This shirt? That I made?

“Felicity,” he says, running out of patience. “Give it to her, please.”

I’m surprised I even got a please out of him. I just want the day to be over, so I do as he asks, not even bothering to go to a different room. I take the shirt off and stand there in the middle of my studio in a (thankfully) very cute bra and my khakis as Lyla slips it on.

Mario seems pleased with the way the light bounces off of it, and ten agonizing minutes later, that’s a wrap. His crew are just as eager to get this day over with as I am, and thankfully they pack up in record speed. Mario transforms into a completely different person, kissing my cheek on his way out the door, smiling and waving at me as he makes his way to the elevator.

Lyla stays behind to help me clean up what little food mess there is. I didn’t know her very well before today, but she has serious grace under pressure and a spirit that not even a bitchy photographer can break. To say her company is welcome would be an understatement. I hope today hasn’t ruined all chances I have of being some kind of a friend to her.

“I don’t know how you deal with this,” Lyla says, slumping down onto a barstool I have sitting outside my little kitchenette.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure that’s the worst photoshoot I’ve ever been a part of.”

Lyla narrows her eyes. “Why would that make me feel better?”

I laugh. “Good point.”

“It wasn’t so bad,” she says, swiping a small pile of errant crackers on the counter into a bowl. “I don’t know too many people who would literally give me the shirt off their backs,” she says, teasing.

I look down at the shirt that I put back on shortly after the shoot wrapped. “Honestly? I would’ve given anyone anything to get that whole thing over with.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you or something. I’ve worked with him a couple of times, but he’s never been like that before.”

Lyla laughs, her short brown curls bouncing as she pops a cracker into her mouth. “I’ve been in theater since I was a freshman in high school. I’m used to dealing with divas.”

“Good point.” I reach into the fridge and grab a couple of beers. After I fish a bottle opener out of a drawer, I pop off the tops and hand one to Lyla.

She takes a long swig. “Thanks,” she sighs.

“I promised you a real drink, but I think we could both take the edge off.”

Lyla tilts the bottle as I walk over and sit down next to her. “This is good enough for me.”

She’s so sweet and down to earth. It reminds me of my experience with Poppy, and how much she’d changed from the first time we did a shoot with her to when I saw her in Portland. Being talented and having people acknowledge that can turn you into a real asshole if you’re not careful, and Lyla is one of the last people I’d want that to happen to.

“We should hang out again sometime,” I suggest. “If you want.”

She gives me a genuine smile. “I’d like that.”

I smile back, hesitating for a few seconds before I say, “Can I give you a word of advice?”

She nods eagerly. “Absolutely.”

“You’re so great. When you find more success, which you will, because you’re so talented…don’t let this business change you. If I run into you at a party in a couple years, it’d be nice if we could sit down and have a beer again, without you complaining about the waitstaff.”

“That scenario is oddly specific,” she says with a soft laugh. “I take it you have some experience?”

I nod. “A little.”

“Well, it’s great advice.” She holds her bottle up, tilting it in my direction.

I clink my bottle’s neck against hers. “To remembering where you came from,” I say.

Lyla gives me a smile. “I can drink to that.”