Page 24 of You, with a View

“I love you so much, and it’s a generous offer,” I preface, holding my hands up. “But not only would I have to fling myself into the nearest pit of lava if my mother got me a job, we canneverwork for the same company.”

She sits back, insulted. “Why not?”

“Because my title will be Marnie Shepard’s Daughter, no matter what the role is. You’re a legend there. The Oprah of sourcing.” At this she perks up. Deep down, I am my mother’s daughter; we love people gushing about our accomplishments. She’s a kick-ass VP at a wearable tech company, andeveryoneknows her. “I appreciate the offer, but it will mean more if I do it myself.”

Her work voice goes into full effect. “So, what are you doing?”

“Marnie...” Dad says.

“Grant,” she shoots back, and a lengthy silent sentence follows.

Thomas looks between us, tennis match style. Next to him, Sadie mouths a word:trip.

The map flashes in my mind. Those locations circled by Gram’s hand.

The words fly out of my mouth. “I—I may have a thing.”

Mom raises an eyebrow. “A thing.”

“A thing?” Dad repeats, hope in his voice.

Something like guilt gnaws at my chest, but I force it aside. Across the table, Thomas is catching on. He bites back a smile. “When I said I was working on a couple things, this is one of them. It’s like a photography... thing.” Someone grant me the ability to start saying words that aren’tthing. “A trip. A, uh, two-week trip, um, across the western United States.”

“A photography trip!” Dad says, his face lighting up. “How awesome, Beans.”

“Is it paid?” Mom asks.

My brain scrambles for an answer. “No, but it could lead to paid opportunities.”

It’s been nearly two weeks since my TikTok went viral. Maybe Thomas was right. If I keep telling the story on the road, people could continue to latch on to it. I could take pictures along the way, use them to make jazzy clips with music and vibes, talk about the landmarks I visit. When done well, those types of videos do solid numbers, and I already have people waiting on me. I could finally do something with the online shop I’d been setting up before Gram died, link it to my TikTok account.

I could try again.

It’s a hell of a way to do it, but I can’t think of a much better reason to dust off my camera. I haven’t been able to shake my restlessness knowing Paul and Gram never got to fulfill that trip. Maybe hearing the rest of the story from Paul and then going will soothe it. Maybe walking in Gram’s planned path more than sixty years later will help me hold on to her. It could soften some of this grief, let me feel like I’m actuallydoingsomething in the process.

I think of that dream, of Zion. Of Gram standing next to me, her hand almost in my hand.

I press on, determined now. “Uh, the photos I take will be judged for quality”—I’m literally thinking of TikTok commenters now—“and based on that, I might have some really great options.”

Dad is getting misty-eyed, and the guilt turns thick. No turning back now, though.

“Is this a group trip?” Mom asks.

“Yes.” It comes out sounding like a question.

“Are you lying to me?” She leans back in her chair, her dark ponytail bobbing with the movement. Her arms are tanned andperfectly Pelo-toned. Strong enough to literally wrestle the truth out of me if she were like that.

“No! And Mom, even if it was a solo trip, that would be okay. I’m twenty-eight.” I look from her to Dad, who’s watching me with a tired smile, his blond hair and work clothes mussed. “I know I’m Benjamin Button-ing all over the place, but I am actually a grown human being who, up until four months ago, lived on her own.”

“I know.” I give her a look and she holds up her hands. “I do! I just don’t love the thought of a woman traveling alone—particularly a woman who wearsmyheart on her body.”

We exchange world-weary looks. “I hate that we have to think about it.”

“Fuck, me too,” she says, which shocks us into laughter. She’s not much for the f-bomb, but when she says it, she really makes it count.

“This is incredible, Noelle.” Dad reaches a hand across the table. I take it, my throat squeezing in tandem with his fingers tightening around mine. “I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you,” I manage, feeling equally hopeful and like shit on the bottom of someone’s shoe.

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