Torn(23)

My memory like that is actually a series of memories of helping in the bakery on the weekends with my siblings and listening to my mom calling one of our names, then correcting herself by calling out another, and then another and then two or three more before she finally sputtered out the one she meant to say in the first place.

The easiest solution to avoid that after all the disappointed looks on the faces of her kids was simple. The boys became lads and the girls became girlies.

From that point forward, she never called any of us by name in the bakery again. If she needed help, the first lad or girlie to pop their head around the corner, put their hands to good use, rolling, kneading, icing or carrying a tray to the front.

"Does your boyfriend have tattoos? Those boy band types always have the tattoos in all the wrong places."

"He's not my boyfriend, Mom." I grab a small spoon from the rack that's near me, dipping the tip in a bowl of chocolate ganache. "If Eli told you that, he was mistaken. I took pictures of him for work. That's it."

"That's not it, Girlie." She waves her hand in the air so high that flour rains down on the hairnet that's covering her dark hair. "Elijah told me that he was loitering outside your apartment after dark. He wants to be your boyfriend. Your father did the same thing before I married him."

I've heard the story of my parents' romance a million times and if I'm lucky, I'll hear it a million more before they're too old to remember or death steals them away. My mom always tears up when she talks about meeting my dad. Right now, I don't have time to walk down that particular path of memory lane. I have to get back to Manhattan for an evening shoot that's scheduled to start in ninety minutes. I asked Eli to stay to assist me, but he wanted to get home, so we hopped on the subway right after we had an early dinner at the Italian restaurant around the corner from my place.

"I have to work tonight." I lick the last remnant of ganache from the spoon before I toss it into a bucket reserved for dirty silverware in the industrial sink. "I'll be back again on Sunday."

"You'll take some pastries for your clients." She gestures towards the front of the bakery with her chin. "Then you'll call when you get to your studio so I know my Girlie is safe and sound."

I walk back to where she's still beating the dough to within an inch of its life. I lean down and kiss her forehead, using the moment to tuck the three one hundred dollar bills I've had clutched tightly in my hand into the pocket on the front of her apron. I've done the same thing twice a month for the past five months.

She didn't ask for my help. I never offered it outright but when Eli told me he heard her talking about the bills piling up and sales slowing, I started slipping the money into her apron.

Tonight, she does the very same thing she does every time I do it. She kisses my cheek, pats me on the back and tells me she loves me.

***

I've never shied away from going after what I want in life. It's the main reason why I run one of the most successful photography studios in New York City.

I'm not one of those people who have a five or ten year plan that they follow religiously. I set a goal and then I work my ass off to achieve it as quickly as I possibly can. If my parents taught me anything, it's that you have to work for what you want in life. No one is going to hand you a free ride, unless there's a hidden fare attached to it, be it in the form of having to sacrifice your heart or your soul.

There's no one in this world that I owe anything to. I paid off my student loans two months ago. I did that by working hard. That's exactly what I did tonight, when I photographed a couple with their newborn baby.

Before I took the job, I suggested I visit their apartment. In my experience, most new parents want the first professional images of their baby to be in their home. The setting adds something pleasantly abstract to the images, a sort of sense of belonging that isn't there when they sit or stand in front of a canvas under studio lights.

They were insistent that they wanted the shoot to be portrait style in front of a pink background. I'm always up for a challenge so I asked for the time of day when their baby girl was most alert, then I booked them in, sent Remy to find a bright pink backdrop and instructed them to dress in white.

The results were well worth the three hours it took to get them. The shots I have are filled with whimsy and love. The photographs I took when the wife breastfed their daughter, while her husband stroked the baby's cheek, are the ones they'll treasure the most.

I asked them to allow me the opportunity to take pictures of that very intimate and tender moment. They agreed without question. It's that initiative that I'm drawing on now, as I lean against my studio door, take a deep breath and call Asher Foster even though it's almost midnight and, according to him, we've never gone an actual date.





CHAPTER 18


Asher




I think about her words as I walk down Madison, my head bowed, my hands tucked into the front pocket of my jeans. It's late for much of the city. Those who are out now, aren't looking to spot a famous face as they hurry home or to a club to pick up someone to make the night less lonely. An adventure waits around every corner in Manhattan. For me, that adventure is in the form of Falon Shaw, who called me less than fifteen minutes ago.

Her voice was soft as she joked that she knew she hadn't woken me. She spit my words back at me about dates, and midnight, burgers and rules.