Page 3 of Everything We Give

“Nope. Driving home.”

“How was it?”

“Horrible. Lots of burned acreage. Too many homes lost and people displaced. But hey, I got a call fromSierra Explorer. They’re sending me to Yosemite next week. It’s for an online piece about the dangers of hiking along Vernal Fall. Nothing new, but with those kids going over the edge last month, there’s been a brouhaha to restrict the number of hikers and move the fencing for the viewing platform back. Guess who’s writing the piece? Reese Thorne. Have you heard of her?”

I groan before I can think not to.

“Uh-oh, not sure I like the sound of that. She was at ASU same time as you. Something I should know?”

“Nope.”

“Do you know her?”

I hesitate. “I know of her. She’s drawn to important stories. Her readers love her and her articles have won awards.”

“But ...”

I don’t want to tarnish his first impression of Reese, but I feel he needs to know what he’s getting into since his photos will be attached to her article. “Let’s just say in this new age of reporting where readers favor opinion over fact, Reese has thrived.”

“Yeah, that’s what I heard. I just thought you might know a little more about her or had worked with her in the past, back at school or something. We’re spending two days together.”

“I’m a landscape photographer and she’s a journalist. Better chance she’s been on the front lines with you than the backwoods with me.”

Erik laughs. “True. Speaking of landscapes, I’m going to stay a few extra days and take some nature shots for my portfolio. Do you mind looking through them when I get back? I’m sure I could use more pointers. You have a critical eye.”

“Sure. Anytime.”

“Great. What about you? Have you heard from Al about the Rapa piece?”

“I’ll take a rain check on answering that question,” I say, arriving at my car. I tap the key fob, unlocking the door.

“That can only mean one thing, but I’ll hold off the congrats for later. I want details when you’re ready.”

I sink into the driver’s seat. “I’ll bring you up to speed when you buy me that beer.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Gotta get home to the wife, my friend. Chat later.”

I end the call with Erik and speed-dial Aimee. I’m sent straight to voice mail. “Hey, Aims, honey. I’ve got some great news. Call me back.” I text the same message.

When I arrive home, I park the Explorer in the driveway of our one-story 1960s ranch. The house is beyond old and in need of a remodel. But, hey, it’s home. We sold my condo and Aimee’s downtown bungalow to give us just enough of a down payment so our mortgage didn’t slice a jugular in our monthly cash flow.

The investment was worth the life savings, blood, sweat, and signing over the parental rights of our firstborn. Kidding. But we live in the same neighborhood as Aimee’s parents, something we both want for Caty. I don’t have extended family, and what family I do have—a missing mom and estranged dad—is seriously messed up. For Caty to grow up by her grandparents? It means everything to me.

Besides, we aren’t in too bad of a financial situation. Aimee has been scouting locations for a second and possibly third coffee shop because the flagship store has consistently performed well. My photos move fast when on display in brick-and-mortar galleries. Through my online gallery, I’ve acquired international clients with money to burn. Interior designers have sought my work to display in hotels, resorts, and restaurants in five different countries. ThisNational Geographicassignment will be the caramel syrup on top of my portfolio sundae. I’m rocking the photography world.

Cue another fist pump.

I punch the air and let myself into the house and my phone pings with a text from Catherine. She attached a video of Caty dancing with the caption:Caty’s happy dance. We’ll keep her for the night. Have fun!

Great news for Aimee and me. We have all ... night ... long to ourselves. My mind dives under the sheets in our master bedroom and I grin.

Thinking of Aimee reminds me: I haven’t heard from her. This isn’t like her. She’s usually quick to respond.

I frown, scratching my jawline. Where is she? She didn’t mention any appointments today. Or did she? I must have checked out of our conversation when she chatted my ear off at four-freaking-thirty this morning. Those crack-of-dawn wake-ups kill me. I don’t know how she does it five days a week. But I start my day with her anyhow. I treasure those intimate moments with her as the darkness of night shifts to the gray of dawn.

I call her again. I go straight into voice mail again. Strange.

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