Page 111 of The Girlfriend Zone

“Don’t even try it. Talk to me,” she says, cutting into the cake and taking a bite.

I busy myself, fiddling with the napkin on the table, trying to decide how much to share. Briefly, I consider steering the conversation to business instead. Birdie is a businesswoman after all. I could ask her advice on the rent increase. But I don’t want to look like I’m angling for more work from her. And, honestly, maybe I need to deal with what’s front and center on my mind first. “There’s…someone. But it’s complicated.”

Her eyes light up. “Oh, Ilovecomplicated. Who is he? Anyone I know?” she asks so innocently.

I give it back to her in the same way. “Maybe a little.”

“And you like him?”

I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “I do.”

A grin spreads across her wise, weathered face. “I bet he feels the same.”

“He does,” I admit, warmth spreading through me at the thought.

She takes another bite, then sets down her fork with a clink against the porcelain. “So what are you going to do about all of these complications? Because, honey,complicationsis just another word for stuff you’re not ready to deal with.”

“Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

“I’m not in The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society for nothing,” she adds, winking.

I swallow hard. “Okay, so as a member, what would you tell me to do?” I know she’s on my side. I know she’ll say go for it. Maybe all I’m really looking for is permission.

Birdie leans back in her chair, her eyes softening. “Honey, you’re young. Don’t get caught up in the details. Someday, you’ll be old, running a coffee shop, taking photos, and wondering about some guy who got away.”

Her words hit like a hammer to my chest. I glance out the window at the morning crowds rushing by on Fillmore Street, people chasing their to-do-lists and their days, my throat tightening. It sounds so easy—like you can just throw caution to the wind. But it’s not justmycaution. There are others involved. My dad will always be here for me—to the end of the Earth and back. Which also means he would always take my side. But what if I try something with Miles and it falls apart? What would that mean for Miles on the team? Even if it works out, would it be awkward? Uncomfortable? Create a rift between them? Cause discomfort with the other players? Would they respect him less? Miles was affected by his injury. What if there was an emotional injury, too, from us? How would that impact him?

“I know what you mean,” I say. “But it’s not that simple.”

“Of course it’s not easy. If it were, you wouldn’t be drifting off while taking pictures of lattes and treats.” She smiles knowingly. “Speaking of, let’s take a picture of thatnext drink I’m making. I think you’d benefit from focusing on something familiar.”

Yes, she’s right. Her insight grounds me, reminding me of who I am. I’m a photographer, a storyteller, a human who likes to remember all the special moments. Even the ones that might pass you by. Like this one, when a kind, sassy woman who believes in romance looks out for me.

She also gave me the answer to the question I didn’t have to ask—what to do about the rent increase. The answer is the same as the romance one—focus on something familiar.

There is no magic solution to a cost jump. I need to keep taking photos. The more clients I gain, the better I can handle the ups and downs. Like Melissa is doing with the cookies. She jumped on the opportunity to add a new line of sweet things. She wasted no time.

Life keeps coming at you. And I’ll keep dealing with whatever it throws my way. I glance down at the Nikon—withthis.

This skill, this ability, this talent. It’s mine, and I’ll keep using it.

I pick up my camera again, letting the act of taking photos settle the storm in my chest, even if all sorts of complications remain.

Later, when I’m at his home, covered in four small dogs, editing the photos, my mind drifts again. To the way Miles makes me feel—desired, appreciated, and seen in a way I haven’t experienced before. But maybe it’s what I’ve been searching for with my camera all these years. I spend somuch of my life being the lens, but what I’ve really been looking for is someone to see me.

And of course, seeing me really means…listening to me.

Miles listens. More than anyone ever has.

Over the next several days, Birdie’s advice digs roots in me. Her encouragement—though of course she has her grandson’s heart in mind—makes me think that maybe it’s okay to give in to something that feels good, even if it’s fleeting. Maybe it’s okay to be with someone, however briefly, who listens.

I replay her advice as I work for The Sports Network, as I walk the dogs, as I make tea every morning and gaze at the sun rising while steam curls over the mug, imagining mornings like these with Miles.

Dangerous things, these daydreams. They nip at my feet as I go to the arena and plan the calendar with Everly. On Tuesday afternoon, as we’re scoping out locations in the arena to shoot the images, we walk past the mural Maeve worked on last season. My attention snags on the Presidio looming at the edge of the mural—the site of our first date. The painted image pulls me back to that day. It reminds me of kneeling in front of the lockbox, clicking it open, discovering a vintage locket. I can see him lifting it, looping it around my neck, clasping it as his fingers brushed against my skin.

I still have the photo I took of it, so I dig around for it in my files, finding it without much effort. I stare at it, slipping back in time, falling into a memory of how I felt that day with him. It’s comforting knowing that that perfect day isn’t forgotten—it’s captured perfectly in this image.

As I look at it, I shiver, just like I did then—before Igave in to the way I felt with him. To the way helistenedto me.

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