Page 4 of When Sparks Fly

“I’ll bring some things for you to keep this time,” I promise.

The unmistakable sound of her hands clapping once in excitement bursts through the phone. “That’ll be wonderful.”

“Where do you want to eat?” I park in my usual spot and gather my trash.

“How about Aimee’s?”

“The French bistro? Ok.” I should have known she’d pick her favorite place. I’d be happy with sun tea and her cheesecake, but I want her to get out for a bit. “I’ll be there around eleven. Is that ok?”

“Yes, baby. See you then. I love you so much.” She makes a sweet kissing sound.

“Love you, too, Nana. See you tomorrow.”

After a long shower, I settle on the couch dressed in my favorite comfort leggings and a thin, baggy sweater. The coffee table is hidden beneath my laptop and folders from today’s clients. The scent of toasted marshmallowfills the living room, wafting from the lit candle on the side table. Faux pumpkins, similar to the ones I used in photos today, surround it.

My tiny one-bedroom apartment is minimally decorated, aside from my celebration of fall. I never spend much time, effort, or money on decor if it isn’t photos.

Color prints of my favorite shoots from over the years hang above the thrifted, suede couch. The coffee and side table, also second-hand, don’t match. None of the three pieces fit any one aesthetic, nor was I focused on one.

A giant spoon and fork are mounted over my bistro set in the blip of a dining room. I think every aesthetically hopeful dining room in America has the same set. In the hall are my favorite black and white photos. Five years I’ve been here and it’s always seemed temporary.

Before getting started on editing the photos from today, I check the group chat with my best-friends, Izzy and Leah. No messages. I send a quick message wishing Izzy a safe arrival in Hawaii and reminding her to take a thousand and one photos so that I can live vicariously through her. Her obligatory “I got leid” picture fills my screen in response, eliciting a huge grin. She’s all legs in a pale blue dress with a golden lei around her neck. Leah follows up with entirely too many middle finger emojis.

Our trio is akin to Neapolitan ice cream. Izzy is vanilla. Not because of her ice-blonde hair, but because she’s subtle, reliable, and always put together. She fits well in every situation. Leah is strawberry. A little bit tart, a little bit sweet. The wild one that maybe you don’t expect to enjoy, but thoroughly do because it’s strawberry and how could you not? And I’m chocolate. Versatile in a similar way to vanilla, but packing a bigger punch and also not everyone’s cup of tea.

I work until my eyes blur, managing to edit half of the photos from today’s mini sessions, before padding into my bedroom with my phone. The stark white, thousand-thread-count, Egyptian cotton sheets call to me. Only the bed has received luxury attention in the years I’ve lived here. Otherwise, I splurged on photography equipment, backdrops, or session decor. Focused solely on building my business and honing my craft, everything else was an afterthought.

I set my phone on my secondhand nightstand, flip off my lamp, and shove myself deep in the covers, asleep instantly.

Sometime in the night, my phone vibrates across the nightstand, jarring me awake. Adrenaline surges through me.Stephanie, my mother’s name, flashes on the screen, adding to the dread.

I put my phone to my ear, pushing my hair from my face and sitting upright. My mother’s curt voice comes down the line before I can utter a greeting. Her clipped tone isn’t a surprise, but the words she’s throwing at me are crushing.

“Mother passed. The funeral will be this weekend.”

“Nana?” My voice is a cross between a squeak and a croak. Obviously, she’s referring to my grandmother, but my brain is frazzled.

People talk about pain being a knife to the heart, but this is a battering ram. A crushing force on my chest making it nearly impossible to breathe.

Stephanie’s words remain composed. “Alan and I are driving down now.” I’m only half listening to my mother’s voice.

How did this happen?

“I don’t understand. I just talked to her.” My eyes land on the album and loose photographs I prepared to take to Nana.

Stephanie scoffs. “These things happen quickly, Maci.”

Silent tears hit my cheeks. I know better than to count on her for emotional support.

While my relationship with my mother has been strained since I was a teen, my relationship with Nana only grew over the years. Despite my lack of proximity, I often called Nana daily through high school. The calls may have been less frequent in the six years since graduation, but our bond never diminished.

This loss is compounded by knowing how close I was to seeing her.

Chapter 3

Maci

Ican’t go back to sleep after we hang up. Instead, I prepare for a long weekend in Bull Creek, starting with emailing my recent clients about a delay due to a family emergency. While packing a suitcase, I make sure to pick the perfect dress for the service.

---