He exhaled with surprised laughter. “You might say that.”
I narrowed my eyes at him and, before he could react, lifted my camera, and clicked the shutter. “Aha! I’ve captured a consolation prize.” I shook my camera at him, defiant. “Now we’ll see what you go for on the open market.”
He made a gesture as though to swipe my camera away, dramatically failing and clutching at his chest. “Touché. But I can tell you it’s not much.”
Thoughts of payment hit my stomach like a runaway freight train and sucked all the fun out of this enchanting encounter. The probability of running into yet another celebrity in this part of Brooklyn was slim. I needed to head back to the office immediately and do more research to scout my next lead. Maybe I could still bring something to Andy before the end of the day. I couldn’t afford to let him down again. I knew he’d begun counting down the days until he could fire me—I could feel it. And I needed this job.
I frowned. “I have to be getting back.”
Micah chewed on his pretty lower lip for a beat, then said, “Hey, you wouldn’t happen to have a business card? You know, in case I’m ever in the market for my own personal paparazzi.”
That made me laugh again, and my momentary gloom lifted. I reached into my camera bag and produced a plain white card with just my name and contact info. “And you?”
Micah patted his pocket and came up with a wallet. He slid a card out and held it toward me. I started to scan it when he laid a finger on my shoulder, and my eyes closed for a beat as I leaned my head against his hand. What had come over me?
“It was good to meet you, Jo-Josie from Georgia, Atlanta. I hope I see you again.” He looked into my eyes once more, more serious than before. “And don’t let this business change you.”
He gave my arm a quick squeeze, then turned and headed away from me, and I stood planted in that spot enjoying the view as he walked away. I sighed, hoping maybe he’d asked for my card so he could call me. I dropped my eyes back to his and read, “Micah Sinclair. Theater of the Absurd.”
My jaw dropped.
I’d been talking to Micah Sinclair for a good thirty minutes. Micah freaking Sinclair. My head fell back, and I stared at the clouds passing. He’d been in my clutches, and I hadn’t asked him a single hard-hitting question. And the picture I’d shot—I didn’t want to think about it.
My boss would eat me alive. If I didn’t kill myself first. I could have delivered a click-bait-worthy photo if I’d had the first clue I’d been hanging out with a sought-after commodity.
In my defense, I didn’t have an encyclopedic mind like Andy’s. And I didn’t have the experience to recall every single minor celebrity who’d graced the tabloids. In fact, I had to wrack my brains to think of the last thing I’d even heard about Micah. Something about a girlfriend, I thought. It didn’t matter. None of my excuses would hold water in the court of Andy.
I considered chasing after Micah. I could take a picture of his backside. It was a worthy subject, in my estimation. But I was already going to catch hell for the one crazy-ass shot I’d taken—especially without a printable quote. I could have deleted the picture and pretended this never happened. But Andy would make my life even more insufferable if I returned altogether empty-handed.
An ember of hope began to bloom as I remembered I had Micah’s contact info. What if I called and sweet-talked him into a quote? I lifted his card again and read the words, “Please contact my agent at—” And all hope died.
Fixated on Micah’s last statement, I trudged back toward the subway. “Don’t let this business change you.” All along he’d known I was missing a golden opportunity, and he must have been laughing at me the whole time. I squared my shoulders and decided to chalk it up to a learning experience. Yet another one.
Ordinarily such a humiliation would have left me near tears. But as I walked, I began to laugh. At the very least, I’d have a hilarious adventure story to tell Zion. And in spite of everything, it had been the most fun I’d had since I couldn’t remember when. Micah had turned out to be the bright spot in an otherwise cursed day.
As I neared the entrance to the subway, a young girl wearing face paint and holding a bright red balloon caught my eye. I reached left and switched to my personal camera, pressing the shutter to capture a burst of images. Bright sunlight created a halo in her wild curly locks. Her parents hunched over a map, blind to the masterpiece of their child. The girl glanced up and saw me. I knelt on the sidewalk and winked at her. She tilted her head and looked directly into the camera. A guileless smile broke out. She was missing her front tooth.
Click click click. Beautiful.
Some Kind of Magic is Mary Ann Marlowe’s first novel. When not writing, she takes karate with her kids (she has a second-degree black belt) and works by day as a computer programmer /DBA. She spent ten years as a university-level French professor, and her résumé includes stints as an au pair in Calais, a hotel intern in Paris, a German tutor, a college radio disc jockey, and a Webmaster for several online musician fandoms. She has lived in twelve states and three countries and loves to travel.
Mary Ann Marlowe lives in central Virginia, where she is hard at work on her second novel.
Some Kind of Magic Page 29