by JD Hawkins
But I slow down as I head toward my car, my head lowering as other thoughts start to intrude upon my triumphant emotions.
Half a month’s pay was bad enough, but no pay at all makes it impossible for me to make the rent I need by next week—and my landlady isn’t the kind to wait.
And as bad as MESS was, I did get a chance to spread my wings a little bit lately—especially since Wyatt started working there. It’s not like I’ve forgotten how competitive it is to be a photographer—Christ, this is L.A. There are almost as many photographers as there are wannabe actors. Jobs only come in two types here: Unpaid or through connections, and god knows I’ve never been good at making connections.
A company like MESS was about as good as it got for me. A troubled start-up with a small chance—very small, albeit—of actually going big and paying me a decent salary.
By the time I get to my car, all the glory and satisfaction I felt telling Jim where to shove it is gone, replaced by a future full of uncertainty and dread.
“Melina!”
I turn to find Wyatt running after me, long, athletic strides. His hair bouncing gently and his blazer whipping behind him. “Hey!”
I stop and fold my arms in a semi-defensive posture.
“Please don’t try and talk me into going back in there,” I say firmly.
“I couldn’t get you back in there if I tried.”
I shrug. “Yeah. Jim’s not the forgiving type.”
“No…not because of him,” Wyatt says, getting his breath back a little. “Because I quit too.”
I take a moment to study him, to wait for the wry smile or the glint in his eye that’ll reveal that was a joke, but he looks at me so seriously that I realize he isn’t kidding.
“What?”
“I just told Jim I can’t work for him anymore. I’ll tell my consultancy tomorrow—I don’t know how they’ll take it, I’ve never walked out on a job before, but honestly I don’t care.”
My mouth goes dry, and it takes a couple tries to swallow.
“Seriously? What about your job—the west coast office you were going to set up if it all went well?”
“It all feels kinda meaningless now. What’s one more rung up the ladder?” Wyatt takes a deep breath, then says, “Anyway, that’s not what I came out here to tell you. Are you free tonight?”
I laugh suddenly and loudly at the ridiculousness of the question.
“Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”
“I need to show you something,” Wyatt says, his face determined and imploring.
I stare at him and shake my head.
“Jesus…” I say. “How can you even be doing this? Here, now. After everything that went down between us. You just want to act like nothing happened?”
“Please, Melina,” Wyatt says, in a tone I’ve never heard him use before. “I know things between us are messed up right now.”
“Yeah—”
“And I know I owe you a massive apology and that you probably hate me right now.”
I open my mouth to say something—impulses urging me to say that I do, to drive home all the hurt he’s made me feel recently, but I can’t, because I know that deep down it’s not what I really feel.
“But,” he goes on, “if we could hit pause on all of that other stuff for now, if you could just indulge me—there’s something I need to show you. And if you want, you can go right back to hating me afterward.”
“I don’t know…”
“I’m asking as a friend, Melina. Just give me this one chance.”
I look around the parking lot, heaving a sigh, knowing I’ve already given in.
“Ok. One chance. But it’s a temporary pass.”
“I understand.” Wyatt grins and tugs his sleeve up to check his watch. “Can you meet me at LAX at four?”
“LAX? Wait…where the hell do you want to take me?”
“New York.”
I stare at him in confusion.
“You want to take fly me to New York? Today? I thought you were going to take me out for ice cream or something. I can’t just—”
“Please. Just trust me.”
I bite my lip and look away, my gaze darting around the parking lot once more. Emotions crash against each other inside of me, and I’m too overwhelmed to express any of them. But even with all of my hesitation and mixed feelings, he’s pushed exactly the right buttons. I’m curious, for one, and beyond that…I still love him, as much as I ever did. And there’s a part of me that hopes that whatever this is, it’ll be enough to start rebuilding the bridge between us—even if we go back to being just friends in the end.
Because if I know one thing for certain, it’s that I don’t want to lose him.
I shake my head. “Ok.”
“Great,” Wyatt says, already starting to walk backwards toward his car, pulling his phone out as he does so. “Oh, and wear something nice.”
“Wait! Wyatt!” I call. He’s already twenty paces away and bringing the phone to his ear. “What do you mean ‘nice’? Where are we going?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll love it!” he calls back, yanking his car door open. “And don’t stress about the clothes too much—you look great in everything.”
I watch him drive his car out of the parking lot—tires almost squealing on the asphalt—and wonder what the hell I’ve just agreed to. Wyatt’s got a knack for surprises—I’m just hoping this is the good kind.
22
Wyatt
I do everything I can to make things ready; calling in favors, paying over the odds, and even shouting at people over the phone when I need to. Still, there’s a nagging doubt in the back of my mind that Melina won’t be there at the airport tonight. Why should she trust me after I fucked things up so badly? Maybe she’ll just disappear, go hide inside herself instead of taking this chance, instead of trusting me all over again.
Yet I still don’t tell her what I’m doing. The thought of surprising her, of the look on her face when she sees this, is too delicious for me to ruin it. And even if she never speaks to me again, I’ll be content knowing I finally did right by her. That I did my best to make up for everything else I did wrong.
When I see her standing there on the ticketing level at LAX, looking around nervously, hand on her small carry on—in a body-hugging little black dress and a pair of beat-up Converse sneakers that make her look like the coolest member of an indie rock band—I feel a dozen different kinds of happiness. A dozen kinds of desire and lust and love.
I move through the crowd, making my way toward her purposefully. She only sees me when I’m five feet away, and smiles self-consciously.
She says, “I can’t believe I’m actually doing th—”
I grab her in a tight embrace, lifting her off the ground. I can’t help myself. I hate how awkward things have gotten between us since I messed it all up, this cold caution that split us apart, and I break through it, put it away in the most direct way possible. The way our bodies fit together feels more ‘right’ than anything else has for a long time.
Maybe I’m about to fuck everything up again, maybe what I’m about to show her will be the final straw, and maybe we’ll never go back to those brief days of perfect intimacy, but I can’t leave it without stealing this final moment of closeness from her.
We break apart and Melina blushes, seeming a little embarrassed as reality seems to come rushing back to her.
“Wyatt…this is a little much. I’m so confused. I mean…”
“I’m sorry,” I say, my smile making it clear I’m really not. I look up and notice the times on the departures board, then take her hand in a hurry. “But we’ve got to go.”
For the first few hours of the flight Melina tries to tease out the truth of where exactly in New York we’re going, and I play around with her expectations, enjoying her shy excitement over the mystery.
There’s a strange sense of intimacy as we sit beside each other, almost as if we’re leaving all t
he things we went through behind in L.A.—a feeling that anything we do or say on this plane doesn’t really count, and that we won’t have to face what it all means until we land on the opposite coast. Our arms touching, her hand reaching for mine so easily when we take off, fingers interlocking, her head resting on my shoulder, the way she excitedly grabs my knee when she leans over to look at the glimmering lights of Manhattan through the window as we descend.
When we finally land it’s all a rush, the lines frustratingly slow, the traffic for our cab annoyingly thick. Finally, at about a quarter-to-ten, the cab drops us off at the Midtown location. Melina and I step out into the glitter of the city at night. To the music of cars honking and streetside chatter, between skyscrapers that reach up into the stars.
Melina locks her arm in mine, maybe more out of a sense of trepidation than anything romantic—but it’s romantic nonetheless.
“Here it is,” I say, gesturing at the bustle of people hovering around and inside a lit-up rustic-industrial style space.
“What is this place?” Melina asks, sounding more confused than ever as she looks up at the red brick building.
“A gallery.”
Melina stares at me like I’m crazy.
“You flew me all the way across the country just to see some art exhibit?”
I laugh easily.
“Not just any exhibit. Yours.”
Melina does a double-take, studying the spot a little more intently, but the place is so packed with well-dressed, wine-drinking patrons that we can barely see what’s on the walls.
“Come on,” I say, leading her toward a crowd so thick it’s spilling out onto the sidewalk.
Inside, I take Melina around to the various blown-up photographs on the walls, making my handshakes and greetings and ‘how you doing?’s as brief as possible so I can enjoy her open-mouthed shock. The images are the best out of those I kept and cherished for years, printed from negatives Melina had probably forgotten she’d even given me, along with a handful of newer pieces that were sent to me by Winnie and Becca after I made a few calls.
There’s street photography from the summers we used to knock around downtown L.A. hooking onto subcultures, another series of images she made in high school from an abandoned building project, stark portraits of the local musicians and writers we used to know. A group of erotic pictures that she shot during college—nudes and couples of all colors, identities, and ages entwined—has a crowd so thick around it I have to barge a path through them like a football player.
Soon, word gets around the loudly-chattering ensemble that the photographer herself is here, and I’m almost shoved out of the way so they can get to her.
“Who are you working for currently?” one expensively-dressed and self-important looking woman asks her.
Melina’s expression goes panicky, then smoothes out into a forced grin. “Um…I guess I’m freelancing right now?”
The woman smiles as if this is a calculated bargaining move and not the truth.
“Do you do much fashion photography? Magazines? Runway?”
“I mean, I could…”
The woman moves in, as if assuming Melina is playing hard-to-get and sensing her opening is limited. “What’s your schedule—say, around August—looking like? I know it’s a little short notice, but the rate is generous and we could really use your eye. We’ve been trying to find someone who can take something avant-garde and capture what’s real—”
“Here’s her card,” I say, handing the woman one of the business cards I had printed.
“Great,” the woman nods, handing her own back to Melina. “Here’s mine. Don’t answer now, just think about it. But think fast. Call me next week and let me know.”
With typical New York brusqueness the woman ghosts away, as if already on to the next thing, person, or place she has to take care of. Melina turns toward me, then looks at the business cards in my hand.
“Where did you get these?” she says, snatching one from me and studying it.
“There were a bunch of them out front—mostly gone now,” I say, then laugh. “Don’t be mad—I had them printed up for you. I know the design is sparse, maybe a little too edgy, but I figured they’d do in a pinch and you can make better ones later.”
“No…to be honest, they’re actually kinda perfect. I love the silver lettering.” Melina looks like she’s about to either kiss me or chastise me for overwhelming her when a big, tattooed guy who looks like trouble steps near, his beautiful girlfriend beside him.
“Excuse me, but are you the photographer?” he asks Melina.
“Yeah, I am,” Melina says, getting happily comfortable with the attention.
“Somebody told us that you’re based in L.A.,” the beautiful girl cuts in with a smile.
“I am.”
“I’m looking for someone to photograph tattoos—I own a shop,” the guy explains. “I need something a little more interesting than your regular Instagram thing, you know? We were looking at the nudes and it seems like you’d do great with the whole art-on-skin angle.”
“Yeah,” Melina says, enthusiastic. “I can definitely do that.”
She hands the tattooed guy the card she just snatched from me and smiles.
“Awesome,” the girlfriend says. “He’d love to have you come by the shop.”
“I’ll call you when we’re back in L.A.,” the guy adds. “I’m Teo, by the way.”
“Melina. And you are…?” she asks, turning toward the girlfriend.
The woman grins and shakes hands with Melina. “Ash.”
“Nice to meet both of you.”
“See you back on the West Coast then,” the woman says, as the couple move away and back into the crowd.
Melina looks at me, an irremovable smile on her face now, eyes so full and wide it looks like she might start crying.
After laughing with the incredibility of it all, she says, “This is unbelievable, Wyatt.”
I shrug nonchalantly. “Not really,” I reply. “You should have been doing stuff like this years ago.”
“Sure,” Melina says sarcastically. “Like I could have rented a spot in Manhattan on my salary, and invited all these hotshots here. How did you even pull this together so fast?”
“Let’s just say I called in a favor or two. I figured I owed you.”
“What for?”
“Introducing me to rock climbing.”
She laughs and shoves me playfully.
“Honestly,” I say, a little more serious, “I wanted to do this the second I came back and saw what you were doing at MESS. I just didn’t want it to seem like I was pushing you too much, or like I thought you needed my help.”
Melina sighs and pushes her hair out of her face.
“Well. Judging by all of this, I guess it turns out I do need your help.”
“No you don’t,” I say quickly. “I mean, sure, this venue cost a bomb, and these people are mostly connections I made working here—but it’s still your photography on the walls, and it’s still you they’re interested in.”
Melina looks at me with an affection that makes the crowd and noise around us blur and fade, the entire world reducing itself to the only things that matter: me and her.
“The only thing you ever needed help in was believing in yourself,” I say. “Like I believe in you.”
The words come from some part of myself I always knew existed but never quite admitted. Saying them out loud seems to put something right, something in perfect alignment. And the way she looks at me now might be the greatest moment of my life so far, the moment when everything inside of me just seems to fit in a way it never has.
It lasts for only a second, however, as a couple of guys with British accents and horn-rimmed glasses draw our attention to offer some more business to Melina. It’s a pattern that goes on for the rest of the night: Melina dealing with a steady stream of inquiries from wealthy, powerful patrons impressed with her work, me playing the supportive associate by her side. I
watch her field questions and joke casually, too humble and shy to take herself as seriously as all these potential clients are. All that talent and yet she still blushes through every compliment. It’s not just rare—it’s completely unique, completely her.
Midnight’s long gone before the crowd starts to thin, and every conversation is a hearty goodbye. Melina and I step out of the almost-empty gallery into a tender night, Melina high and giddy only partly from the alcohol.
“I feel like I’m dreaming,” she laughs, looking at the sky and spinning on the sidewalk, as if she’s so light she can barely hold herself in one place.
“So why wake up?” I say, taking her hand and guiding her in a pirouette that ends with her falling against my chest. “I got us a hotel for the night. We don’t have to fly back until tomorrow. Unless you want to take a red-eye.”
“Let me guess,” Melina coos, pressing her chest against me, “only one bed?”
“I can sleep on the couch if you like.”
Melina winds her arms around my waist and brings her lips close to my ear.
“We don’t need to sleep at all, if you like.”
Twenty minutes later I’m pushing open a door at the St. Regis Hotel to reveal a lavish room, all elaborate furniture and chandeliers, carpet that feels as soft as grass and floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline.
“Holy shit,” Melina says as she steps inside, as if this much beauty has to be hiding some dangers, the swear word incongruous with her Alice In Wonderland demeanor. “This is unbelievable.”
I watch her float through the room with her trance-like grace, trailing delicate fingers over the edges of the furniture, eyes open wide to take it all in. Seeing her like this makes something swell inside of me, her happiness so much greater than just being happy myself, so much more meaningful.
She pulls open the sliding glass doors, unveiling the multi-colored lights of the city, a soft breeze entering and teasing her hair so she’s even more beautiful.
“No way,” she whispers, as she steps toward the balustrade and leans over it.