She leans in and pokes me in the ribs. “Hey. You’re good at everything. You’re the Everest. You’re The Miracle.”
“That was just hockey. It doesn’t apply to—”
She cocks her head. “What about hockey? Zack went to the NHL. He’s playing for the Preds. Do you not want that?”
“That’s not an option. See you later?”
She leaves the truck, and the air feels different without her.
Tense. Dark.
Another text from my dad comes through.
Don’t screw this up.
I’ve never, not once, worried about the interview. I don’t have the LSAT score, but when it comes to people, I can pour on the charm and get them on my side.
This is good news.
I should be on top of the world.
So why do I feel like it’s ending?
17
Julia
“That’s the most beautiful thing ever,” Taylor squeals as he clutches at his heart. We’re two of a handful of people in the library. I giggle.
“So, I should use that one?”
He leans closer to peer at the screen. He doesn’t need to. The reason we’re here instead of at home is because they have these lovely 28-inch screens. My photographs are practically life-size.
“All of them,” he gushes. “Just . . . all of them. They’re superb.”
I wish he was saying that about my photography skills, but there’s a little drool in the corner of his mouth. He didn’t swoon over my panoramic photograph of the lake or the composition of the skies over Bell Mountain.
He’s transfixed on one thing: Eric Hansen.
I nudge him. “Come on. Seriously. I need to know which one of Eric is best for my portfolio. One.”
“I suppose if you’re making me pick just one, I fancy that one.” He points at one of Eric leaning against the boards with his hockey stick in his hands. His helmet is off and his hair is a mess around his face. It makes my heart twinge with excitement just to look at it.
“That one just makes him look hot. I need one that shows off my skills.”
He tilts his head. “Okay, that one, where he’s moving on the ice. I like how everything behind him is blurred out. The white of the rink is a nice contrast to his uniform. The effect is rather good.”
I curl my lips. “I like that one, too.”
He had his interview today. When I texted him this morning to wish him luck, he responded with a thumbs up and nothing else. Maybe he was nervous.
“Mmm,” Taylor says, gazing at me with suspicion. “You like him.”
“I don’t,” I protest, but it’s a weak one.
I have squishy feelings about him. Ones I have to suppress.
He and I, we don’t go together.
He’s here as a pit stop on his way to his amazing life, and I’m careening around trying to take care of me and my mom.
Doubt practically drips off Taylor’s tongue. “Why are you guys hanging out together, then?”
I avoid his gaze. “We’re friends.”
“Hmm. What’s this portfolio for?”
“Oh . . .” I blush, not sure I want to tell anyone and jinx it. Eric sent me a link to the position he mentioned. “It’s a photographer’s job working for the paper. They need someone to take pictures for human interest stories. I probably won’t get it. I don’t have the experience.”
“You’re an artist, love. You have a real eye for this. If you show them those photos? You’re gonna be a star.”
His eyes catch on something behind me, and I notice a couple of other people staring as well, their eyes lighting up in wonder.
“He looks like a ginger James Bond,” Taylor says.
I look over my shoulder at a tall man in a power suit. It was made for his body, stretching over his muscles. It’s dark blue with a perfectly pressed white shirt and a purple paisley tie with a pocket square to match. His hair is slicked back into a tight bun at his neck. Shades cover his eyes.
I swallow.
Eric looks like a high-powered CEO. A sexy one.
He flips his shades up, swoops in, and hugs me. His breath tickles my ear. “Hey. Poppy told me you were here.” He’s wearing new cologne, something expensive and spicy.
“Ahrr . . .” I say. Only when it’s out, I realize it’s not actually a word.
Taylor gazes at me like I’m a complete weirdo and smiles, extending his hand. “Mr. Lawyer. You look fabulous.”
“Thanks,” he says, then focuses his attention back on me, staring directly into my eyes.
And I say nothing.
I want to punch myself in the face. I need to get it together and stop being a tongue-tied twelve-year-old.
I clear my throat and try to order my thoughts.
Taylor nudges me then, obviously not wanting to witness my imminent crash-and-burn. “I should leave. I’ve got a paper on Balzac calling my name.”
“Good luck,” Eric says as Taylor picks up his bicycle helmet and backpack, then sweeps out of the computer lab.