Lucky lifts his chin. “Henry Zabka—your dad. He’s gotten a shit-ton of big projects over the last few years. His work is gorgeous.”

“Uh, yeah. He’s amazing. He’s still … tough.”

“Tough,” Lucky repeats.

I’m not sure how else to describe a man I barely know. He’s candid in both his photos and his manner. Interviewers call him rude. “I still don’t get to see him much. Every year or so he visits or we’ll meet up somewhere for the weekend. He took me to see a bunch of photography galleries in New York the year after I left Beauty. I was thirteen. I shook Annie Leibovitz’s hand.”

“Yeah?” He seems impressed.

“It was pretty great,” I say. Truth be told, I was so nervous that it’s hard to remember anything about it other than I felt overwhelmed, and that her hand was cold.

Lucky studies me. It’s hard to read his expression.

I sniffle and scratch my nose. “But, anyway … yeah. Henry—my dad. He’s, still, um … very much a tough-love kind of guy. Nothing for free. He takes on apprentices every year, but you have to earn it. Aspiring photographers fight for those slots.”

“At his home in Malibu?”

“Yeah.”

“And that’s where you plan on going after your grandmother comes back?”

“You do remember what happened the last time my mom and grandma spent more than a few hours together, right?” Ticking time bomb.

Something clicks behind his eyes. “So, that’s why you’re bailing and going to Malibu?”

“I’m not bailing. It’s not a sure thing, but yeah. After I graduate, maybe. I don’t know.”

“You plan to move in with your dad.”

God, he’s nosy. “Maybe. If he’ll have me as his apprentice.”

Lucky makes a funny face. “If? Jesus, Josie. You’re his daughter.”

“So? Just because we share blood doesn’t mean I should get special treatment.”

“Suppose not,” Lucky says, but he doesn’t look convinced.

“I don’t want a handout,” I say, feeling like I have to explain myself. “I want to earn it and prove to him that I’m worth taking on after I finish high school next summer.”

“Like, how?”

“Like, by building up my portfolio. And … I was … hoping to get a photography internship at a magazine.”

“Magazine?” His brow lowers. “You mean … Coast Life?”

“You know it?”

“Only magazine in town. Started up a few years ago.”

Oh.

“Had no idea they offered an internship,” he says.

“Shadowing the photographer who’s shooting Regatta Week at the end of summer,” I confirm. “I think it’s the only photography internship in the area, so getting it would be a huge deal for me. My dad would really respect it,” I tell him, feeling a little despondent but unable to admit that I lost the internship already. Because I’m too young.