Excerpt from The Nine Lives of Rose Napolitano by Donna Freitas, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Um, Rose?"

I hear footsteps. A pair of navy‑blue sneakers, worn at the toe, laces ragged, appear on the floor in front of me. I take a big breath, let it out, and look up. The photographer is youngish, maybe my age, maybe a year or two older. His eyes blink, he bites his lip, his brow gathers.

"Sorry," I say, hands fidgeting in my lap, fingers clasping and unclasping. "I must be your worst subject ever." I look away, off to the side, into the dim space beyond this bright, portrait setup where I sit, a gray background scrolled behind me. A row of boxes, the kind you buy if you are moving apartments, is stacked against the wall. A blue jacket is draped over the top, and a hockey stick lies on the floor along the baseboard. "This was a dumb idea," I go on. "I just thought ... I mean, I wanted ... but then ..."

"You wanted?" the photographer asks.

I don't answer, I guess because I don't really want to talk to this stranger about the inner workings of my heart. Besides, I'm still taking in the junk piled everywhere. This must be the photographer's house. He called it his "studio," but it looks like he lives here. Or maybe just moved in.

"You wanted what?" he presses.

There's something about the sound of his voice—gentle, patient— that makes me want to cry. This whole situation makes me want to cry. "I shouldn't be here, I'm not good at this." Now I do start to cry. "This is so embarrassing, I don't like getting my picture taken. I'm sorry, I'm really, really sorry." I cry harder, even as my inner feminist scolds me for so much apologizing.

The photographer—I can't remember his name (Larry? No. Lou? Maybe.)—squats down next to my chair so we are almost at eye level. "Don't worry. Lots of people hate having their picture taken. But are you crying because of the portrait, or because of something else?"

I study this man, the way his right knee presses through the rip in his jeans, the way his body sways ever so slightly in his crouch. How does he know that my reason for crying isn't because of the picture? Has he also sensed that this is really about my parents, who sometimes have a hard time understanding my choices? The woman I've become as an adult?

I cross my arms, press them into my body. This black gown with the velvet trim is thick and stiff. I bet it would stand on its own if I propped it just right. I pull the puffy beanie from my head and shake my hair out. It probably looks awful after sitting under the weight of this thing. The beanie is also velvet, the same blue as the gown. I was so excited when it came in the mail, the symbol of so many years of hard work, of the doctorate I am about to receive officially on graduation day in May. My PhD in sociology, the one that will turn me from just Rose into Professor Napolitano. Doctor Napolitano.

"Who's that picture of, over there?" I ask the photographer instead of answering his question. I point at it, extending my arm to the right.

Hanging on the wall above the stack of boxes is a large framed photo. It seems out of place, given the transitional state of everything else—fixed and permanent. Two people, a man and a woman, are sitting side by side on a porch, each one with a book open in front of them. The expressions on their faces are so alive, so engaged, like the words before them are the most exciting words ever written.

The photographer turns in the direction I point and chuckles. "Those are my parents. I took that when I was ten. I'd gotten my first real camera for my birthday that year. I was taking pictures of everything around me—flowers, blades of grass, the grain of the floorboards in the living room—very artsy."

He turns back, looks at me and shrugs. Rolls his eyes at himself. They are green, with flecks of brown.

"I took a lot of excellent shots of the dog, too."

I laugh a little. Some of the tension in me releases. "And so ... ?" "Yeah, right." This time he doesn't turn away. He keeps his gaze  on me. "Well, that photo—I was just arriving home. There was this monarch flying above the tall grass and I went running after it, trying to get the perfect shot." He covers his eyes with his hands.

Excerpted from The Nine Lives of Rose Napolitano by Donna Freitas. Copyright © 2021 by Donna Freitas. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.