Page 3 of The Mistletoe Bluff
Coffee was supposed to fix everything.
Spoiler alert: the coffee wasn’t doing anything for me except making my heart race.
I glared at the drips of condensation sliding down my iced Americano as I sat at The Roasted Bean. My laptop was open on the table, taunting me that I hadn’t accomplished anything in the last two hours I’d been here.
I hoped the caffeine would help me focus on editing the photos from the last shoot I did before I left London a few days ago, but so far, my mind had only been spinning in circles.
Namely, around a girl I was struggling to get out of my head. A girl who just happened to live here in Meridel. A girl who hated me.
I looked out the window. Light snow fell outside, white flakes dancing in little flurries on their way to the ground. Jazzy Christmas music tinkled through the speakers.
I thought about heading back to my townhouse and seeing if that would help me accomplishsomething, but after living in the busyness of London my entire life, I wasn’t quite used to the silence and isolation at home. I loved the slower pace of this small town, but it had been an adjustment to not have chaos and noise as my constant companion.
I needed to finish editing these photos so I could officially take my break from the agency, but as the last of my coffee slurped up the straw and into my mouth, I knew today was not that day. I considered buying another drink, the tantalizing scent of espresso in the air made my mouth water, but my heart was alreadythump-thumpingharder than it needed to.
Maybe I should just go home.
With a sigh, I closed my laptop, packed up my bag, and left the coffee shop. The sidewalk was slick beneath my boots as I made my way back to my Jeep. I crawled inside, letting out a breath of relief as the seat warmers came to life.
Maybe a drive around Meridel would clear my head enough to let me focus.
If nothing else, it’ll let me keep procrastinating.
The streets of Meridel, a small town on the western edge of Iowa, were decked out with Christmas lights, which dangled between lamp posts across the road, and giant wreaths hung on each side. Shop owners were out shoveling the sidewalks in front of their stores, trying in vain to keep up with the Midwest winter. At the end of Main Street, I turned right on a dirt road that led out of town. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I needed to keep driving.
My phone pinged in the cupholder, and I glanced down, the nameDadflashing across the screen. Pressing the button that would have the text read aloud, I braced myself for whatever my father had to say.
Dad
Have you entered the contest yet?
A surge of anger bubbled in my stomach.
I had been avoiding my father, and this question, for weeks now.
No, I hadn’t entered, nor did I plan on it. He didn’t want me to enter the contest because he thought I deserved to win. No, he wanted me to enter becauseifI won, it would bring endless exposure to his company—the one I worked for.
His agency employed dozens of photographers in London. Many of them excelled at different types of photos, such as retail, real estate, or family photos. I, unfortunately, was its “shining star,” able to do well at any of them, which my dad never wasted an opportunity to exploit.
My award-winning photography was the reason for the exposure and success he’d had thus far. I was a bargaining chip in board meetings, and he knew how to play me like a fiddle to get me to agree to gigs I never wanted to do.
Our conversations over the past few years had been strained at best since I had started speaking up and telling himno,and he never missed an opportunity to tell me how disappointed he was in me.
I enjoyed photography, but I didn’t want to be my dad. I wanted to make a difference; for my art to mean something. I was so used to viewing everyone else as my competition or trying to make myself stand out, and I hated it. I didn’t want something I loved to be tainted by a need to be seen.
For years, my father had used me and my talent to further his company and career, and after I won the spread in theIowa Artist Gazette, I gained a lot of new clients in the States, which had been a goal of my father’s—to take the agency international—so, of course, that made things even more tense between us. He saw only my talent, not the man behind the camera, not his son. I'd had enough.
Hence the indefinite break I was taking…right after I finished editing those photos.
Determination flooded through me. I deleted his text without a response and turned onto the next road that would lead to my house. A few moments later, the trees to the right opened up to an enormous snow-covered field, one which boasted giant sunflowers in the fall.
A familiar car was parked in a tiny lot on the side of the road.
I pulled over, my limbs on autopilot, and into the spot next to the Honda Accord, the one that I had parked next to enough times at Meridel Community College to be certain who it belonged to. I wasn’t sure why I thought it would be a good idea when the owner of that car had flat out told me to stay away from her.
But when it came to Maya Beck, all my good sense disappeared.
The frigid winter air seeped into my layers as I stepped out of my Jeep and stood between our cars. Across the field, a familiar girl was crouched in the snow, her blonde hair peeking out from beneath a black beanie. Maya’s back faced me as she photographed a couple rolling in the snow in the distance.
