Page 120 of Never Let You Go

“Depends.”

It’s annoying how I can interpret exactly what he means. He’s concerned about the content and the image he’ll be projecting. He might act as if he doesn’t care what people think about him, but I’m ready to bet he can’t afford that luxury, yet. And he might act like he doesn’t know squat about social media, but that’s just alpha posturing. He has a kid who will be a tween in a few short years. He knows.

“If it was on brand?”

He doesn’t grace my buzzword with an answer. Points for him.

I let it go and spend the afternoon continuing to work on my pet project. The only work that actually makes me happy and doesn’t feel like work at all.

“Skye, come here,” I say. “I want to know what you think.”

We just finished dinner, and I want to kiss the feet of the man who can cook a clam chowder and shepherd’s pie and bring me a glass of wine all at once. But I can’t kiss him—not right now—so I decide to woo him with a creation of my own. And, given the cold reception I got earlier, I’m coming up with a little scheming.

I didn’t know I was the scheming kind. Note to self: Men might bring misery; they also make women scheme.

This apprenticeship is turning out highly instructional.

Skye stands from the floor where she’s been coloring and tucks herself against me, my laptop on both our knees. Christopher is flipping through TV channels, ignoring me.

Step One.

“So beautiful!” Skye exclaims as I scroll slowly through a mock-up feed I created. The photos that Skye finds so beautiful are breads and confections in different arrangements. In a wicker basket, on a china plate, on a wooden chopping board, on a silver tray. No matter the backdrop, the star is the bread. The bread always generates the emotion.

“I love it,” Skye says, her little hands clasping at her heart.

Step Two.

“The… Wright… Ba… Ke… Ry,” Skye spells out. “The Wright Bakery!” She shoots a huge grin at me and wiggles her feet in happiness after she’s deciphered the elements of a logo. I feel, rather than see, Christopher glancing at us. I lock my eyes on the screen and keep scrolling.

Step Three.

“It’s Daddy! And Willow! And Kiara! And Isaac! And Daddy again!” Christopher wiggles in his chair but stays put. “Daddy, come seeeeeee!” Skye calls out to her father. “Is that me?” she asks, pointing to a child’s fingers tearing apart a cinnamon bun.

“Yes, that is you,” I answer.

“Daddy come seeeeeee!” she cries louder.

He stands.

Step Four.

“What the actual fuck.”

thirty-three

Christopher

This is what happiness looks like. The woman of my dreams sharing a moment with my daughter at the end of a day of hard work.

Skye’s excitement gets me out of my head. I do everything for my daughter, so if she wants me to check something out, I do. Leaving my chair to go stand behind the couch where Skye and Alexandra are sitting, I pull on Skye’s pigtails because that’s what they’re for and look over Alexandra’s shoulder to her laptop.

What I see stuns me. “What the actual fuck.”

There’s like a mosaic of pictures of the bakery, each one carrying more emotion than the previous. There’s Willow handing wrapped breads to a beaming customer. Isaac proudly taking croissants out of the oven, his uniform impeccable. Kiara focusing on the finishing touches of a myriad of colorful cupcakes.

Although people occupy most of the screen, my eye is always drawn to the products—the breads and pastries. I notice those are sharper and realize Alexandra placed the focus on them, in a subtle way. It’s very professional, as far as I can tell.

She scrolls through the photographs, and then, there are several of Skye’s hands tearing open breads, smearing jam on her fingers. We never see her face, and I appreciate how Alexandra’s thought of protecting her privacy, while being clear to the viewer that this is a kid having an awesome experience eating bread.

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