Page 21 of Better Hate than Never

“Woman who requires payment incash, not doughnuts,” Bea tells him, poking his side.

He yelps. “Of course. No, you’re right. I’ll pay you—”

“As a consultant,” Sula says from just a few feet behind, startling all three of us and making us spin around. “I wasn’ttryingto eavesdrop, but you’re all unavoidably loud. I know things have been chaotic this fall, and we’re all wearing a lot of hats right now.” Gently, she squeezes Toni’s elbow. She gives Bea a soft smile.

Then she turns toward me. “Still no pressure to answer today, but we’d love to have you taking photos for our social media. You’d have carte blanche. Get creative, have fun. I’d also love to update the website photos, too, but we could discuss that separately, if you want. I’m a shit baker, so my offer stands to pay in cold hard cash.”

I feel a little kick of excitement, a flutter in my belly like a kaleidoscope of butterflies taking wing. It’s been a long time since I did the kind of photography she’s talking about—purely aesthetic, just for fun, playing with light, experimenting with perspective. For years, I’ve taken job after job, staying too busy to process the emotional toll of covering such intense material. The news is often focused on the worst in the world because that’s what sells, and I do believe in shedding light on what’s bad to wake people up and compel them to fight for change, so I’ve sought out those hardstories. And yet, while it’s been a privilege to try to dosomething, to uplift voices and advocate through my camera, it’s also worn on me. I told myself that it should, that I should feel burdened and sad and angry about the injustices and human failures that I captured, that I shouldn’t feel joy after seeing firsthand how much is profoundly broken in this world.

But something about standing here, surrounded by beautiful things, and good food, and kind people, makes me think maybe wanting to feel a bit of joy for just a little while wouldn’t be so terrible after all.

I glance my sister’s way, watching Bea’s attempt to hide her hope dissolve into a full-on smile. That’s when I realize I’m smiling, too.

Finally, I turn back to Sula. “When do I start?”

—

Two days later, I’m hired and officially trained, dunking a piece of pumpkin glazed doughnut (made by Toni, of course) into a cup of cold coffee that I forgot about this morning.

“Well,” I tell Toni and Bea, who sit across from me at the back of the store, all our feet up on an old crate. “This is exhausting shit.”

They both nod.

“But it’s energizing, too.”

“You’re a natural at it,” Toni says. “You caught on so fast.”

Bea beams my way. “She’s like that with everything. When Kate’s compelled by something and decides she’s going to learn about it, she throws herself into it, works her butt off, and figures it out. Every time. I’ve always admired that.”

Happiness, thick and sweet as honey, seeps from my heart through my limbs. “Thanks, BeeBee. That’s nice of you.”

“I say what I mean, KitKat.” She toes my Doc Martens withhers. I’ve always privately loved that while Jules wouldn’t be caught dead in Doc Martens (in her words, they donotflatter her silhouette), Bea’s always been my Docs twin.

Toni clucks, nodding his chin toward our boots. “Tell me you two brought shoes with less tread to change into later.”

“Shit.” Bea groans, dropping her boots to the floor. “I forgot.”

“Forgot what?” I ask.

Toni rolls his eyes. “I swear to God you two need a personal secretary.”

“Sula’s birthday party,” Bea reminds me, voice lowered. “Tacos and Tangos. You said you didn’t think you were up for it.”

Toni frowns. “Wait, why not?”

I glance back toward the office, where Sula came in to work hours ago and hasn’t come out since, birthday be damned. Two days of being here, after all the kindness she’s shown me, I can go to her birthday party. “I wasn’t sure I’d feel good enough,” I lie to Toni, pointing to my shoulder.

“Ahhhh,” he says.

“But I’m doing better,” I tell him and Bea, glad, for once,notto be telling some degree of a fib. “I’ll be able to make it.”

“We just need to go home and grab the right shoes,” Bea says.

“That works perfectly,” I tell her. “I forgot the scarf I knit Sula at home. I can grab that, too.”

“Let’s go, kids!” Sula yells, tromping out of her office. “Time to close up! Tacos and Tangos, here we come!”

Bea says, “Only Sula would work on herbirthday.”

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