Page 2 of Everything We Give

I kiss her cheek. “Great working for you today. Next time I’m charging for my time,” I tease.

“You already do. You get a nice payment from me every month.”

She’s right about that. Wendy sells almost every photo I bring to her.

I leave the gallery and walk the two blocks in October’s temperate air to Aimee’s Café. The scent of roasted coffee, cinnamon, and baked goods wafts over me when I open the door. I inhale deeply. God, I love that smell.

I ignore the cursory glances from patrons when the bell above the door alerts them I’m here, and I especially ignore the oil paintings on the wall that butt up against my photography like the person in line who has no concept of personal space. Paintings done by Aimee’s ex-fiancé, James Donato.

I don’t mind they’re up there. They don’t bother me. Not really.

Actually ...

They do. They really, really do bug me.

Five years into our marriage and she still hasn’t taken them down.

I honestly didn’t care about them and why they were still taking up prime wall real estate until June. After living in a dissociative fugue state, James returned with memories of, and emotions for,mywife still intact. But Aimee made her decision. James needed to understand that. She left him. She moved on. She chose me.

Then I remember that they kissed.

I bite down on my teeth.

I want those paintings out of here even though I’ve held off mentioning that to Aimee. Because James’s artwork seems to make her happy.

Happy wife, happy life.

I force myself to relax, even broaden my smile. I wave at Trish, who works behind the counter, and go in search of Aimee.

“She’s not here,” Trish calls after me.

I stop and swing around. “Where is she?”

Trish shrugs. “She didn’t tell me. She left a couple of hours ago.”

I rap my knuckles on the wall in thought. I’ll call and tell her to meet me at home.

“Let her know I’m looking for her if she comes back,” I say and leave the café.

On my way to the car, my phone rings. Erik’s mug lights up the screen.

“You owe me,” I answer.

“How does it look?”

“Spectacular. I’m a genius with a hammer and nail. Hanging your sorry-ass photos is exactly what I wanted to do on my afternoon off.”

Erik laughs. “Better you than me.”

I met Erik several years ago at the Photography Expo and Trade Conference. He started out as a photographer with the Associated Press, traveling to war zones and areas of extreme poverty, but the confrontations he witnessed and suffering he documented took their toll. Quitting while he was ahead, and still in possession of his life and sanity, he now freelances. Together we found a means to an end. I respected his photojournalistic skills and Erik has long admired my nature and wildlife imagery. We became mutual mentors and fast friends. Erik’s the guy I call to meet me for beers at the end of the day, or for a round in the ring at the gym when I need to work off the edge.

“Thanks for everything, man. Beers on me when we meet up again,” Erik offers.

“Beers on you for the next month.”

Erik chuckles, a deep rumble. “I suddenly find my calendar full. Not sure when I can see you.”

“Nice try, Ridley.” I glance left and jaywalk across the street. “You still in Big Sur?”

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