Mainstream novel
104,000 words
Addictions come in many forms, Jessie Moore learns—including
relationships. Working at the fledgling Philly Times newspaper with
reporter Matt Cleary proves draining after their breakup. When a
longtime friend dies of AIDS, she reconnects with her first love, Billy
Black, who becomes a bridge back to the safety of her old life, and also
to the origins of her artistic inspiration. But Billy drowns his
worries in beer, threatening to drag her down too. After she rekindles
their affair, Matt’s jealousy confuses her. Before she can truly give
herself to anyone, can Jessie learn to be true to herself?
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Excerpt
Chapter 1
Jessie Moore’s camera lens captured their fear, accusation, pain, weariness—and youth. Too young to deal with the death of a classmate. It wasn’t the first time. Too bad it wouldn’t be the last.
Panning the camera across the crowd, she stopped at one baby-faced girl, eyes wide with anger and reproach. Three times she clicked the shutter, then swiveled toward a boy leaning his head in toward another girl with tears glistening on her cheek. Another three shots.
Not the kind of shots these kids were used to, the kind that wounded more than their pride.
She waited in the choir balcony while the kids in school uniforms lined up toward the front of the church in one interconnected jumble. The communion of this mass was not a small white host. It was fourteen-year-old Evan Brown, lying in the casket on the altar.
This angle had to produce the money shot. Jessie clicked the shutter twice, and zoomed in tighter. Surely Ed would like one of these, if even one came out as she’d envisioned it. Maybe it would make the front page, above the fold, of tomorrow’s Philly Times.
At the entryway, she waited for Matt to wrap up with the teacher. Her stomach churned a little, as it always did when she intruded on private scenes. Evan Brown had ridden his bike past the home of a local drug dealer, and took three bullets in a drive-by. The one hundred and eighth homicide in Philadelphia so far this year, and it was only July. There would be hate mail tomorrow.
And the next story to cover.
Intent on finishing his notes, Matt walked down the aisle toward her. Ten months ago, she thought she’d be walking up a church aisle toward Matt. But that was the way life had been going lately. In reverse, it seemed sometimes. Even her photography seemed to be degrading slowly, as if she were losing her skills bit by bit rather than sharpening them. If someone were to snap her picture, the printed photo might erode until she appeared as barely a shadow.
Matt’s eyes met hers only long enough to ask, “Get what you need?”
The opportunity for sarcasm, Jessie had found, could present itself an unbearable number of times in ten months. Self control was becoming a fine art.
“Yes. You?” Penultimate professionalism, the very image. Images were her forte, after all. She’d save the crying jag for tonight. One of these nights, her insides wouldn’t feel so hollow, her heart wouldn’t feel like a five-pound potato that had been left in the microwave too long.
She followed him down the church steps, not even thinking of bouquets or rice. It wouldn’t kill him to crack a smile now and then, but she wasn’t waiting for that, either.
Driving back to the newsroom, Jessie’s ring tone sounded from the back seat—the slide guitar and percussion from Beck’s Loser. She flailed her arm in its direction, but couldn’t reach. “Shoot. Can you…” Before it gets to the part about being a loser, baby, why don’t you kill me....
Matt reached behind her, looked at the phone. “Ha. It’s Miss Dena.” He flipped it open.
“Hey! Matt…” Jessie’s tone carried a warning.
Pleasant and aloof, he answered. “Hello? Who? Yes, she’s right here. Unfortunately, she’s driving. It’s against The Philly Times’ policy to speak on a cell phone while driving.”
The blare of Dena’s voice came through distinctly: Put Jessie on the phone, Matt. Now. I don’t have time for your crap today.
“Give me that.” Jessie held out her hand. Despite his refreshing change in attitude from glum to playful—the first since they’d broken up—she knew Dena didn’t call just to check in. Not during work hours.
He set it in her palm. “Hey, I’m trying to save us from having an accident.”
She shot him a glare. “Dena?”
“Jess. Sorry to bother you at work.”
“No bother. We’re on our way back to the office. What’s up?”
“It’s Jay. Honey, Marc would’ve called; he wanted to, but he’s a mess.”
Jessie’s foot jammed the brake, and the taxi behind them blared its horn, then sped by in the other lane.
Matt braced himself “Shit, I was kidding.”
Jessie waved him away. “Oh no. Is he…”
“He’s gone,” Dena said. “We need to go home. In time for Wednesday night’s services. I’m sorry, sweetie.”
“Me, too.” Sorry didn’t begin to cover it.