Page 49 of Everything We Give

“Well, you should have asked me before you brought it home. Not everyone needs saving. Or fixing,” she adds.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Are we really doing this?” She spins her index finger in the air. Around and around we’d always go, when we stopped, we’d never know.

“No, we’re not.”

Not this time. I could point out she should have asked me to return the cat to the shelter or find him another home, but that’s an old ride of an argument, and it’s not a vehicle I’m getting back on.

I squint at my phone. Still no e-mail from Al. “I haven’t heard from my editor yet that we’ve been assigned to work together.”

“What? You won’t talk to me about the story until then?”

I slip the phone back into my pocket. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Yosemite?”

She looks taken aback. “How do you know about that?”

“Mutual acquaintance.” She stares at me, waiting for me to share who, and I resolve to act more pleasant, to be more amicable. We’re stuck with each other for the next few days. I might as well do my part to not make it a living hell. “Erik Ridley. He’s a friend of mine. Good guy. Go easy on him.” The corner of my mouth lifts.

“I’m not that much of a bitch in the field.” Her tone is teasing. “I’ve heard great things about his work. That assignment’s been pushed back two weeks so I can do this one with you.”

Something about the way she said that has me pausing as I pick up my bags. I don’t know what to make of it and I decide not to read into it. I’m too exhausted.

“Have dinner with me. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

I shoulder my camera bag. “I need to shower and call my editor.” And my wife.

“You heard Oliver. There’s no room service. The only dinner around is in the dining room. And since I remember that you research your photo assignments until your eyes bleed, I bet you already know there isn’t another restaurant for miles. I feel like we got off on the wrong foot. Please”—she presses her hands together as though in prayer—“let’s have a nice meal, catch up, and hash out our plan of attack for the next few days. I’ll be on my best behavior.”

She smiles, brilliantly big, and I feel the punch of it in my gut. At one time that smile got her anything from me. French perfume, a beach cruiser bike she rode everywhere. Deliriously long, sweaty nights of incredible sex. A ginger cat. But not anymore. Right now that grin makes my stomach cramp. Or maybe I’m just hungry.

I glance at my watch. “Get us a table. I’ll meet you in twenty.”

I leave through the front entrance and walk across the lawn. Rooms are scattered about the property in two-story cottages, each housing four suites. My room is on the ground floor with a patio facing the forest. It’s decorated in drab colors and the linens appear worn and tired, but the bed is comfortable. For the next few days that’s all I need.

I sit on the edge of the bed and call Aimee, unlacing my sneakers while the phone rings. Her voice mail answers, and trying not to feel disappointed I’m not talking with her directly, I leave a message. I’m at the inn. I miss her.God, I miss you, baby.More than I can remember feeling on my other trips. It’s probably because of the way I left. I tell her I love her and ask her to call when she’s free.

I strip, shower, and shave, then check my phone. That blasted e-mail from Al finally arrived. He apologized for the delay. He’d been waiting to hear back from the features editor. Reese Thorne has been assigned. She was on assignment in London and should be able to join me in Spain immediately. Al included links to her three most recently published articles. One of them appeared in last month’sNational Geographic Traveler, a piece about the world’s best hikes for the regular person.

After dressing quickly in jeans and a navy-blue henley, I meet Reese in the dining room. She’s ordered a bottle of wine and appetizers, a plate of local cheeses and meats. A waitress appears as I sit and starts pouring me a glass. I hold up my hand to stop her. With the room’s low lighting, the candlelit table, and the googly-eyed couple at the table next to us, sharing a bottle with my ex doesn’t sit right.

“I’ll have a beer, Alex,” I say, spotting her name tag. I crane my neck to look at what’s on tap at the bar. “A San Miguel.”

“Sí, señor.”

Reese points at her glass for Alex to top off her wine. Alex complies, launching into her pitch about dinner. They have no menu, serving only what the chef elects to cook. Tonight iscaldo gallego, a Galician bean and vegetable soup, and oven-roasted chicken. She’ll get my beer and give us time to finish up the appetizer before she brings out the soup.

Reese waves her fingers at me when Alex leaves. “Give it up. How do you know Erik?”

“We met several years back at a conference. He’s trying his hand at landscape photography while giving me tips in photojournalism. We’ve been mentoring each other.”

Alex arrives with my beer. I thank her and take a deep drink.

Reese sips her wine, watching me over the glass rim. “I have to admit, when you mentioned Yosemite, I thought you’d been keeping tabs on me.”

“Your name has come up a time or two over the years.” But I never went out of my way to look her up. I usually heard about her work from another photographer or when I came across her byline in a magazine. Otherwise, I had no idea what she’s been up to personally.

“I’ve been following you. I mean, your career.”

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