Page 12 of Blue Line

“No. A pillow,” I answer, my voice muffled.

“Come on, you have to admit this is perfect.”

I move the pillow. “No, it’s not. He’s doing it because he’s too nice to say no, and I practically begged him.”

“If you say so.” I can hear the eye roll in her voice.

“Let’s change the subject. How are you? How’s the new job? How’s Colorado treating you?”

Callie recently took a social media marketing position out in Colorado with the major league baseball team there.

She sighs, and I think she’s going to protest the subject change, but she doesn’t.

“The job’s going good. Finally settling into my new apartment. I told you the first place I moved into had mold, right?”

“Yeah. That was gross. I’m glad you’re out of there.”

“Me too. This building is way nicer. I think the leasing office felt guilty, as they should have, and upgraded my apartment for free. More amenities. There’s no way it can be the same price as my other one, yet I’m still paying the same rent.”

“You deserve it. Maybe you’ll meet a hot, single millionaire who will sweep you off your feet.”

She laughs. “Just a millionaire? Not a billionaire?”

“Well, a billionaire would probably have a private elevator to the penthouse, so you’d never see him.”

“True. True.”

We slip into silence for a few seconds.

“So, how’s the job search going?” she asks.

“It’s going.”

“That good, eh?”

“I’ve applied for at least a dozen photography gigs. Most of them are short-term contracts. Most of them are long shots. Nothing yet.” I exhale sharply and say what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. “Maybe I should start thinking about a plan B.”

“Ugh. I hate that for you. I think you need to give it more time. Don’t give up yet.”

“I have been giving it time, and I’m still unemployed.”

“I believe in you. You’re a great photographer. You’ll find something.”

I hope she’s right. I’ve done a few photography gigs on my own, but nothing steady. Nothing that can amount to a career. Maybe Henry was right; maybe photography should be a hobby or a side gig, and not my career.

“What else is new with you?” I ask, desperately wanting to change the subject. Again.

“Well,” Callie says, launching into a story about one of the players on the team who landed in her office the other week and whose social media she had to help clean up.

Eventually, we hang up, after I promise to keep an open mind about things with Weston and to text her after the party and let her know how it went.

I promised because I knew it was the only way she’d let the subject go, not because I actually do plan to keep an open mind about Weston.

Because there’s no way he feels remotely the same way about me as I do about him. I know we cleared the weird air between us and that he isn’t annoyed by me. But I don’t think he likes me as anything more than Holt’s little sister. Then again, he did agree to be my fake fiancé, and he did share his beer with me last night.

He’s just being nice, right? That’s the way he is.

At least that’s what I tell myself, because there’s no way this thing with Weston and I will ever be more than a fake engagement that lasts for a few hours.