I set my bottle on the table and skip the texting pretense. Remi accepts the call and shows me a familiar white ceiling. “I get a ceiling, and you get this?” I flip the camera and move so instead of showing the balcony above me, she has a panoramic view of Prague. The castle, and lights, and a few red roofs.

She’s quiet even though my screen goes from white to a red wall and black words. I say them as I read, “You can always run to me, darlin’. Escape for a while and then weather your storm.”

A breath comes through, and an exhale has never sounded so fucking sad. My brow lowers, but the silence feels too necessary to ask a pointless question. So I pan down and show her my world. Tree-lined cobblestone streets and the metal railing in front of me, even my beer on top of the intricately designed wrought iron, and my guitar leaned against the table leg.

“My dad used to tell me that,” Remi says, and I return the lens to the skyline. “He photographed wildlife for magazines and commissions, traveling the world and experiencing moments most of us can’t come close to.” She sighs. “He lived his dream nine months out of the year, and I loved that for him so much. But it meant I lived with my mom most of the time, and she…”

The pause is achingly familiar, so much like mine anytime I hate the truth of the next words.

“She was your storm,” I say.

“Yeah. Was. Is.” Remi shifts, showing her bent knees at the bottom of the frame, and I fill in the blanks. She’s on the floor, hugging her knees and looking at her dad’s words. “I missed him constantly, so he bought me a phone when I was seven. He sent pictures of the animals or the landscape. And fountains. He loved them and always found one to share with me everywhere he went. He’d tell me if I needed him and he was unavailable on a shoot, I could find him there. I could always go to his pictures and pretend I was with him until everything became bearable again.”

Now she has nowhere to run anymore.

“How old were you when he passed away?” I ask.

“Eleven,” she whispers before she finds her voice again. “I looked at our messages every single day, but then my mom took the phone. She told me to grow up and get over it. I mean, it had been three months, so…”

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Remi. You deserved better.” Then I add, “I have a feeling you still deserve better.”