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Marci’s pretty mouth pops open in a perfect O.
I return to my seat and take another sip of wine.
“These photos aren’t going to take themselves, Angel.”
She narrows her eyes at me but doesn’t press me for more details. Maybe she’s afraid of what I’ll say. I don’t blame her.
There’s a lot on our plates. I’ve got to announce I’m running for sheriff, attend rallies, deal with Deputy Fuckhead, and protect her. And I’ve got other goals too. Finding Marci’senemies. Figuring out who would dare threaten her. Most importantly, finding out what the fuck happened on the night her father died.
“What about you?” she asks.
I brush my fingers over my forehead. “What about me?”
“Did you always want to be a cop?”
“No,” I say. “I wanted to be a photographer forNational Geographic.Travel, take pictures, be around wildlife. I went so far as to email them when I was a kid and ask what it would take to become one.”
“Did they email you back?”
“Yeah, they did,” I say, “but my grandfather caught me taking photos out in the backyard. Normal shit, like birds, and this old beehive. I wanted to set up my camera and try to do a time-lapse of the bees coming in and out of the hive. I had no idea what I was doing.”
“And your grandfather caught you?”
I drink some wine. “He broke my camera.”
“What?” Marci stops mid-chop of a tomato. “On purpose?”
“Told me that I was too much of a dreamer. That I needed to protect my family and the town.”
“Didn’t your parents find out?” she asks. Her face is a mask of anger, her lips tight and thin, her nostrils flaring. “How dare he? Did your mom or dad talk to him about it?”
“I never told them,” I say. “I was about ten, I think, and I pretended that I broke it by accident. I’m glad he wasn’t around to see Cash become a country music hotshot. He wouldn’t have approved of that either. He didn’t believe in artistic pursuits for men. Which is a crock of shit.”
“Yeah. Yeah, it is. Fuck that guy.”
I laugh and take a sip of wine. “It’s water under the bridge.”
But Marci chops the tomatoes furiously. “The audacity of that. I get he was from the older generation, but it’s such bullshit.”
“Hey, it’s over. I turned out fine.”
Did I?
“But would you still do it?” Marci asks. “If you could? Become a photographer? Travel?”
“I don’t think about it that much.”
It’s a lie. I do think about it, but I don’t want her worrying about me living an unfulfilled life when she’s got her own shit to deal with. She already worries about everyone else.
Marci cooks the meal, occasionally humming under her breath, and I grate cheese in the silence. It’s a good silence. The kind of silence where you don’t have to talk to be happy with each other’s company.
She preps the food, and I help her as best I can. Then we take pictures of the food. Me standing behind the counter, snapping the photos, adjusting the lighting apparatus I’ve brought along. When I’m done, I stand with her, and show her the images.
“What do you think?” I ask.
“They’re perfect,” she whispers. “So perfect, I could cry.”
Just like you.
