It doesn’t do anything to lighten the lead in my stomach.
Hendrix is deeply in tune with my displeasure. “It’s the first time I’ve seen her all day. Swear.”
It shouldn’t matter. It doesn’t. He can do what he pleases. He has no need to give me excuses.
Yes, my jealousy is irrational, but it’s as real and spectacular as the humans pretending to be stone. “Why would I think otherwise?” I say cattily. “Because she’s here at the exact same time you are. Because she partnered up with you in class. Because you bought her a negroni while she hung on you at Nightsky.”
It’s amazing how Hendrix tolerates my petty behavior. “She said to get whatever I was getting,” he says simply. “And she was the one doing all the hanging.”
“You went with her to the bar in the first place. She arranged it, I’m guessing?”
“She did,” he admits. “Remember there was a group of us.”
“But she’s the one who asked you.”
He steps closer to me, his body almost brushing against my arms crossed over my chest, and though I’m acutely aware what we might look like to Kaila, to any other student observing us, I don’t move away. “And I said yes,” he says quietly, “because I was already planning to go as soon as you told the class you liked to go there too.”
I glance up at him, needing to hear what I so shouldn’t hear. “Why?”
“Because I wanted to see you. And so I went to where I thought it was most likely that would happen.”
The photographer-in-wait. Staking out the subject’s known habitat.
“Some women file restraining orders over such behavior.” I say it like a dare, though I don’t know what I’m daring him to do.
“Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop.”
Was that what I wanted him to say? Because how easy. It’s one simple word that will magically put all this to an end.
But I can’t make the word form on my lips. I can’t even think it in my mind. Because as much as I say I don’t want this, as much as I pretend I don’t want him, we both know it’s a lie.
So if not stop, what now? Do we follow each other around? Do we continue to do this, whatever this is, every time we “bump into each other”?
How long is he going to stay interested in that?
But more importantly, what happens to my happiness if I don’t let him in?
I drop my arms and step away, needing space, but I only end up angling one side of my body from him because I can’t bear to be any farther away. “Why do you care? Was it the sex?”
“No.” He looks disgusted that I even asked. “Don’t get me wrong. It was fucking amazing sex. Mind-blowing sex. Out-of-this world sex. Both times. I’ve honestly never felt more at home than I did inside you, Camilla. But do not ever think to degrade this to just sex.” He waggles a finger from him to me on the word “this,” indicating the crazy attraction that exists between us.
He feels it too.
It makes me want to cry, and I’m not certain if they’d be happy tears or sad. Sometimes they feel the same. Bubbles. “You shouldn’t say such things to me, Hendrix. I left last night when you started talking like this, remember.”
He lets his hand brush against mine purposefully. His pinkie strokes up and down mine, letting me know how purposeful the move is. “The only thing I regret last night is not kissing you.”
My breathing becomes heavy. I thought about that too, all night as I lay in the dark. I repeated the entire dinner over and over, the kiss we didn’t have ending each replay.
I almost say it too.
But that’s too honest. Too naked.
I pretend he didn’t say it and double down on my previous statement. “You should find another tactic. The heart-on-your-sleeve method isn’t working.”
“I don’t know. It seems my tactic is working just fine.”
“Really?”
He wraps his pinkie around mine and electricity shoots up my arm like the light going on when the plug is locked in place. “You’re here, aren’t you?”
I blink up at him, then have to immediately lower my gaze because it’s too hard to look at him and feel all the things I feel at the same time. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” I say, my voice trembling with the confession.
“I know,” he says, and it isn’t at all patronizing. “We’ll go slow. We’ll figure it out together.”
I can’t speak except to say, “I have to go.”
And when I get Freddie and head us in the direction of Edward’s for our swim, I haven’t the least idea if I’m walking away or toward.
Chapter Eight
Tension: The state of being stretched or strained. - MoMA Glossary of Art Terms
Three minutes until class, and I’m as nervous as I was on day one.
This time, instead of worrying that the Hendrix Reid listed on my class sheet is the same one that I met in the autumn, I’m flustered because I’m sure that it is.
Excited too.
There’s a quote that comes to mind from a famous musical when Little Red Riding Hood has first met the wolf, the fear she has at seeing his teeth bared is equally balanced with excitement.
I feel that way about Hendrix, not that I believe he’s a wolf per se. But he could be. He could be any kind of man. He could be secretly cruel. He could lash out when he drinks too much. He could use his fists when he doesn’t get his way.
Or he could be the gentlest man on the face of the planet.
That last possibility might actually scare me the most. I’ve found the other sorts of men so typical in my life that I feel unfortunately experienced. I’m not sure what to do with kindness. Not sure how to take love that doesn’t feel like a wound except from Edward and Freddie.
It’s a wonder that the past six days away from him hasn’t given me time to rethink and reform. Going to the park, letting him meet my son—those were risks I should never have taken. And though I left that day with a light step and an uncharacteristically pleasant outlook, I had fully expected it wouldn’t last long outside his presence.
But strangely, it has. The time in between made room for doubts, yes, but it also allowed hope to settle. Allowed excitement to burrow into me. By mid-week, my yearning was stronger than my fear, and all I could think about was being close to him again, no matter what the cost.
God, why does he make me wait? Is he not as anxious to see me again too? Has he changed his mind? What if he’s given up and doesn’t show at all? Each second that passes, the room feels darker and smaller, too dark and small to hold the growing mass of anticipation within me. My heart is pounding. I’m practically in a sweat. I’m about to spin from the winding tension.
It is an addiction.
Then, thirty seconds to start time, as my hope leans toward turmoil, he walks in the door, bringing a beam of sunlight with him and a stream of fresh air.
Our eyes meet instantly. His lips twitch. His gaze is warm. He’s so obviously happy to see me that even I can’t find a way to twist the proof into something other than what it is.
I have to clamp down the kind of grin I want to give him. I present a smile more suitable for the entire class instead and launch into the day’s lesson. “Studio portraits. Where light is your best friend and your worst foe. Let’s take it on, shall we?”
The half hour spent on lecture goes well enough, despite the split in my attention. I have to force myself not to rush. Each word spoken brings me closer to the breakout sessions when the students will be let loose to work, and I’ll walk around to counsel them.
This time, I will not leave Hendrix for the end.
It’s still another thirty minutes after I’m done teaching that I actually get to him. Working in the studio is a foreign experience for many of them and much help is needed setting up backdrops and softbox and umbrella lights before the first shoot can begin. Eventually, though, there’s a student on a stool and another with her camera focused on her. The others are lined up to take a turn as photographer,
and I’m free.
I somehow manage not to run straight to him, stopping to go over the weekend’s assignment with Charlie and then Salima before I wander over to Hendrix. The anticipation is delicious, even the smallest buildup of time echoing vastly inside me.
“May I?” I say, reaching for his camera. Our fingers brush as I take it, and it’s not an accident.
I bend my head over the screen, slowly flipping through images that barely register as they pass by. I’m focused on the perception I’m giving to the others who might be watching rather than his work. I’m focused on how near he’s standing. On the rise and fall of his breaths. On the sprout of happiness inside that’s grown from the seed he planted.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” My words are quiet, and we’re nestled near a corner in the back, but I glance around the room casually just in case.
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” His voice isn’t quite as low, probably not necessary since what he’s said is more innocuous. He could be happy that I like his composition. He could be happy that I think the sun will stay out all day. He could be happy that I liked the sushi bar he recommended.
It’s a little bit of a game, I realize, pretending in front of the others. A thrilling bit of taboo.
I look up at him, eager to connect with his gaze. “You had me wrecked when you didn’t show up until the last minute for class. Kept me on pins and needles waiting for you.”
I’m surprised I’m being so forthright. It’s almost as if I have no choice. The feelings have been so bottled up inside me, they spill out like a shaken-up fizzy pop once the top comes off.
He rewards my honesty with a smirk. “Now you know how I feel.”
My ribs tighten and the smile flickers on my lips as I try to decide if I’m bothered by being called out. Trying to decide if I’m supposed to feel guilty.
“I’m used to that feeling from waiting in the field,” he says, reading my apprehension correctly, and this time his voice is nearly a whisper. “I’m comfortable with feeling it. No pressure, Camilla. I’m okay.”
I nod, air moving through my lungs as my chest loosens. “Was your motive payback then?” I ask playfully.
“Nope. I’m just very bad with time.” He pauses for my chuckle. As though he expected one. As though I give them easily. Only with him. “To be honest, I got here much too early, so early the door wasn’t unlocked yet. Then, when I saw you approaching, I suddenly worried I was being too presumptuous or too, I don’t know. Eager. So I slipped off to take some pics for a while. Got caught up in that and forgot to watch when to come back.”
I’ve been there. Many a time. The inner world of the artist is awfully large. It’s easy to get lost in it.
But that’s not the part of what he’s said that requires commentary. “You came early?”
He nods, a shy grin forming. “I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“I couldn’t wait to see you either.”
I’m not sure if the words feel better in or out at first, but after they hang for a few seconds, crackling the air around us, I decide I like them there. I like him knowing. I want to share that happy sprout with him instead of keeping it hidden.
A shuffle in the background as the student posing switches off with one in line draws my attention back to our surroundings. My skin feels itchy all of a sudden. “You’re a student,” I say, forcing my eyes back to his camera. “I keep wondering if this is inappropriate.”
“Do I need to point out that nothing inappropriate has happened?”
“The kinds of thoughts I keep having feel very different.” There I am again being candid.
“Well.” He moves a step closer, and the closure of the distance between us combined with the throatiness of that single syllable has my thighs clenching. “Considering that all of your students are adults and that this isn’t the type of school where you give a grade or wield power in another way over us, I think you could probably fuck each and every one of them and no one would bat an eye.”
“Fuck the lot of them then?” My cheeks feel warm, and I’m very near giggling. I hardly recognize who I am with him.
He’s abruptly serious when he answers. “Please don’t do that.”
“Not any of them?”
“Maybe just one.”
I’m so risk aversive that I’d all but forgotten the sweet misery in being dangerous, in saying dangerous things.
And these are dangerous words. Because there’s still a bit of the forbidden, no matter what he says, but mostly because there’s an underlying challenge to this exchange. An admission that we’ve been thinking about each other in the naughtiest of ways. An invitation to make those naughty ways come to life.
I want him. I do. I’ve never stopped wanting him.
But the suggestion reminds me of the last time, of how I moved naked against him in the dark. Pursuing this with him will mean more of the same, good and bad. What are the chances that his flat has blackout curtains as well?
Instinctively, I tug at the cuff of my sleeve while my stomach ties itself in knots. “There might not be grades given, but there was money put forth. I should at least appear to be giving you all equal attention.”
With that, I turn my head back to the camera screen and try to nudge my focus to the images before me and away from the gnawing tension in my gut. It’s impossible, of course. How did I end up here, standing on the edge of this precipice? I’ve been so drawn by the view that I forgot how sharp the cliff was.
The photos pass in a blur as I scroll through. Vaguely I’m aware of the scenery changing, of the series moving from the living statues competition to another familiar setting—the walkway outside the school. I freeze on the image of someone that I know entirely too well, one that I have argued with and gone to war with. One I have tried to reason with, tried to love, tried to hate just as much.
It’s exquisitely composed. The proportion is spot on, my body filling exactly as much of the image as it should to be compelling. The angle is remarkable and unique, the lighting superb the way it hits my face as I lift my chin to the sky. The story is quite clear—a woman who has found the sun before it disappears behind the clouds. I would see it perfectly even if I wasn’t the subject, even if I hadn’t lived it.
Seeing myself on his screen like this, in this context, a shot taken without my knowledge, without even knowing I was being watched—it makes me feel all sorts of twisted, like I’m tangled up in barbed wire. He had no right to take this without my permission. He has no right to see me this clearly. He has no right to make me feel this exposed.
He had no right to take the first image of that other me. She should have been mine.
The emotions would be best stored and sorted through later, but my words seem to always come out untethered around Hendrix. “How dare you?” I ask, not careful about my volume. “You were watching me when I arrived? How dare you?”
He gapes, shocked by my outburst.
He’s not the only one watching. I feel the eyes of all my students on me like needles, and I still can’t pin my mouth shut. “You can’t just take pictures of people without their consent. It’s unethical. It’s wrong. It’s not fucking nice.”
I’m shaking with anger and something else. Something I’m so unused to I have trouble naming it. Vulnerability? It makes me feel stripped down and smothered all at once, and I know. I know the feeling only partly stems from the stolen photograph, that I’m being ridiculous, and that the bulk of my ire is rooted in this cyclone of a situation that I’m in with Hendrix. It’s defense against the possibility that this happiness is false. I’ve moved from the calm of the eye into the overwhelming winds of the storm, but that knowledge does nothing to leash my temper.
“Camilla,” Hendrix says, naturally taken aback. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”
Tears sting at my eyes, and I can’t look at him. Turning away means facing everyone else—twelve faces wearing identical shocked expressions.
“That goe
s for all of you. No photos without consent. Ever. Not in my classroom. I won’t accept it.” It’s not a believable cover. It’s not enforceable. It’s not even practical.
I can’t deal with those details at the moment. I’m dizzy and unsettled and embarrassed and there’s no way I can stay here like this, bare and on display.
“Take this.” Without looking at him, I hand Hendrix his camera. “Continue on, please,” I say to everyone else.
Then, heading to the door with even steps, I run.
Chapter Nine
Expression: The means by which an artist communicates ideas and emotions. - MoMA Glossary of Art Terms
I was sixteen the first time I picked up a camera. One of those early therapists Edward hired had suggested it. It wasn’t the first activity I’d been prescribed. The Four Ps, that doctor had called his recommendations—painting, piano, poetry, and photography. Four Ps for therapy. I’d been an utter failure with the first three, so I was less than thrilled when he’d informed my brother it was time to try the last.
“Less than thrilled” is a kind way of describing how I’d felt, actually. I broke the first camera I’d been given—a Kodak DCS that had cost over ten thousand. Digital was still new and this one was cutting edge, which was why Edward had selected it. Inaccurate as the feeling may have been, I had a sense that the gift had been an attempt to buy my forgiveness for the time after foster care that I’d been enrolled in private school. It was no secret that I harbored resentment. I made it known whenever possible, including when I’d opened that box, seen the expensive contraption, and proceeded to throw it across the room.
I have a different view of that time now that I’m an adult. It was hard enough to become a parent in my thirties. I can’t imagine what it must have been like to have to parent a sister at the age of eighteen, especially a sister with as much baggage as I’d had. Have. Some of that baggage I share with Edward. Our well-to-do household fell apart when our mother died. My father, distraught by her loss, chose her over us and ended his life to be with her in the grave. Thanks to a swindling relative, the fortune he’d left us was soon gone, and both Edward and I ended up being separated in the foster care system until he was old enough to assume guardianship over me. Luckily, he’d inherited our father’s ambition and quickly built his own wealth, which is helpful but didn’t fix anything. All the money in the world couldn’t erase the damage done. As a teen, I made sure I let him know it often.
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