They weren’t though. I knew they weren’t; they recognized they weren’t. Somewhere, drifting along, were my real parents—the man who’d impregnated my mom, and the woman who’d given birth to me and decided she didn’t want to be a mother. It was hard to hate either of them. They might’ve been good people. I didn’t know them, and I didn’t have any interest in seeking them out.
Whenever someone in my life discovered that I was in the foster system, they invariably asked whether I knew my real parents. It was a rude thing to ask, in my opinion, especially since it implied there was something wrong with me only knowing my foster parents. My foster parents were good people. They had to be with what they’d chosen to do—giving kids like me chances.
But didn’t I yearn—these nosy people would persist—to know my true roots, to know where I really came from? Never, except in times of crisis, like the one I was embroiled in right now. I wished I could have someone all to myself, like a mom. Someone I could call on to hash things out, to analyze every syllable of a conversation, to bounce ideas and thoughts and hopes and dreams off of.
But I didn’t have that. I never did.
Even as I despaired over not having anyone to confide in, I knew I wasn’t completely alone. Maybe I didn’t have access to my best friend or the man I loved anymore. But I did have access to something that was a true extension of my soul.
With both of the Paulsons firmly out of the picture, I ranged far and wide across San Francisco, venturing into places I’d been warned against, taking copious photos, giving myself to the lens and the shutter, letting the camera do my thinking and my feeling for me.
I took ferries and boat tours, snapping photos of the undersides of bridges, the shape of the chop in the bay, people taking their own photos of the sights we were supposed to be seeing. I went on a tour of Alcatraz, something I’d been meaning to do but put off because it was so touristy. It wasn’t. Alcatraz was like a manifestation of my current state, a prison isolated on an island, away from everything. I took photos of rusting bars, the concrete flaking off the walls of dilapidated cells, the patina of despair.
I walked back and forth across the Golden Gate Bridge, photographing it from all angles, at all times of day. However, the deepening evening was off limits to pedestrians. Too many people jumped in the privacy of night. I went so often that one of the patrol volunteers who kept tabs on the milieu who crossed its span took notice of my persistence.
“You’re here again,” he said, his task illustrated by the neon vest he wore.
“Again,” I agreed, taking several photos of him, people flowing around him like the water that ripped below. It was a frightening, dizzying view. For many, it had been their last.
“You’re not going to jump are you?”
I snorted at him. “Of course not.”
“Just checking.”
There was despair, and there was my brand of despair. I let the camera lead me. I set out each day without a plan of attack. I’d get on buses I’d never ridden before, stand at a certain point of the cable car routes and take the same photo again and again, letting the sun and weather and people change it. I’d re-imagine classic tourist shots—but with darker, more surreal angles.
Days stretched into weeks, and I rarely ate or slept. I left my phone in my apartment, but I rarely stopped by there for anything more than a shower, a catnap, and a change of clothes. I was well aware that I would miss moments the longer I stayed off the streets, and my camera would go hungry—meaning I would lose focus on my photography and start to think about other things, like whether Patrick was missing me, or how Shawn was doing, or if Patrick was out of the hospital already, or what treatment plan Shawn had settled on, or if he’d settled at all. I couldn’t fathom calling either of them for the details I craved, so I kept myself occupied and distracted.
School never entered my train of thought. It simply wasn’t my focus right now. I kept away from campus, knowing there wasn’t anything for me there. Mercedes would be breathing down my neck about the senior project, but I didn’t have anything to show her. Part of me wished that my camera would point me in the right direction to complete my project so I could graduate, but the majority of me just didn’t care. School had lost all of its appeal, all of its context. It simply wasn’t important anymore.
Ever so often, when I checked back into my apartment to try to eat a withered apple or a handful of peanuts, I realized that my phone had pinged with a message from my adviser. I never looked at them. I didn’t need the distraction.
Without any distractions—except for photography—my art boiled down to a science. I left my apartment as early as possible and stayed out as late as possible. I had to be there to get the shots. That was the most basic thing.
And I was getting the shots. I had never shot like this before—compulsively, like I had to in order to continue breathing. It became a strange manifestation of myself that I wasn’t altogether comfortable with. But Mercedes had told the studio class once that we were never supposed to be comfortable—it was the discomfort that would push us to the next level.
Well, I was breaking through to the next level, all right. That, or I was breaking—physically, emotionally, spiritually. I didn’t feel like myself; I didn’t want to feel like myself. I sought out alleyways and dumpsters and wild patches of asphalt no one took pictures of, and I featured them all in the best lighting of the day, saying something about the forgotten parts of this fair city. I took photos of people dressed up for galas, entering restaurants I would probably never be able to afford, and I took pictures of the people who rooted through the trash behind the very same restaurants, hungry, looking for any sort of scraps to sustain them through the next day. I traversed homeless encampments, talking with their residents, gaining their trust, and photographing them. I listened to them tell their stories, took notes, and got the camera to tell the rest of it.
“How long are you going to keep coming back here?” a grizzled old woman asked me after I distributed some sandwiches I made in the cafeteria at school, figuring no one would miss them if I carried out several shopping bags full of them.
“I guess until it makes sense,” I said, shrugging.
She patted my shoulder comfortingly. “Welcome, then. It doesn’t ever make sense.”
And it didn’t. She was right. We lived in such a beautiful place—one of the most expensive in the nation—and there was a significant population who didn’t enjoy a single luxury or perk here. I shot whole memory cards full of photos in these encampments, always friendly, always ready to listen or help in some way, always bearing sandwiches or whatever food I could cart out of the cafeteria. So much of it went to waste anyway.
It was through this incessant roaming through the back lots and side streets of San Francisco that I found the gallery.
The gallery was an unassuming exhibit space tucked into a row of retail spots and eateries. It wasn’t in the more booming blocks of the art district, but it wasn’t in a bad part of town either. I hadn’t expected to see it where it was, and that was what made me wander inside.
A friendly employee let me peruse the show currently on display—a conglomeration of digitally-altered photography. I didn’t know how I felt about the display. I liked photography for its rawness, its unflinching reality. Photoshop seemed to rob it of its soul. I couldn’t discount the power of the medium if it was well done. I’d been enchanted, after all, by Mercedes’ work online, when I hadn’t even suspected that photography was something I could pursue after high school.
“What do you think?” the employee asked, flipping her hair. “Good exhibit?”
“It’s good.”
“But not great, is it?”
I blinked with surprise. “Aren’t you supposed to support whatever’s on these walls?”
“It’s not that kind of gallery,” she explained. “We’re allowed to disagree with the owner.”
“But not tell the clients about it.”
We both whirled arou
nd to see a woman dressed fashionably—in dark grays and blacks, a wispy material making it seem like the fog would whisk her away if she didn’t hold on to something.
“I’m sorry, Mere,” the employee said, cowed. “I didn’t think you were still here.”
“Sorry,” I offered, thinking it might help the hapless employee. I didn’t want someone to get fired on my account. “We were discussing the display.”
“And?” Mere raised her eyebrows, waiting for an answer.
“Good, but not great,” I said, smiling. “You can apparently disagree with the owner on the assessment of the exhibition.”
“Well, if I knew it was good and not great beforehand, I would’ve shot for great instead,” she complained. “Suzette, you have to tell me your honest opinion when I ask for it. Everyone is different. You and I are very different. I value our differences of opinion because they challenge me. Does that make sense?”
“Yes…yes, of course. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the exhibit was good, but not great. It won’t happen again.”
Mere shook her head and waved her hand as if to dismiss the entire situation.
“Hopefully, the contest will get us that great exhibit I’m looking for,” she said. Seemingly for the first time, she took note of the camera looped around my neck and at my side. “Are you a photographer?”
“What gave it away?” I asked, laughing. It felt good to laugh, though foreign. Was this the first time I’d laughed since the incident? It made me uneasy to consider it.
“Take this, then,” she commanded imperiously, offering me a postcard. “We’re still taking entries for our contest. The winner gets a solo show right here at the gallery.”
I examined the postcard for a few minutes. The theme was “My San Francisco.” I felt a building rush of anticipation. That was what I’d been shooting all these weeks, trying to define my place in this city. I actually had a strong body of work to submit to this contest.
“You know what?” I announced, stowing the postcard safely in my bag. “I’m going to enter the contest.”
“Perfect,” Mere said. “Are you a great photographer?”
My face colored, and I shrugged. How could I define myself like that? If I said yes, I’d come off as arrogant, self-centered. If I said no, then why would they even consider my submitted work?
“You must know,” she said. “Is your work great?”
I thought about all the glowing praise Mercedes and the rest of my professors had given me over the years, the cutting, jealous glances from my fellow students, the fact that I’d gotten a full scholarship to the institute because of the value of my work on social media. All of that was proof, validation that my photos were great, but I searched harder inside of myself. Why did I need validation? Couldn’t I know in my heart that my photos were great, and that I was a great photographer? What was so bad about understanding it and admitting it?
“You know what, my work is great,” I finally announced. “My work is great, and I’m a great photographer.”
Mere’s lips lifted in a smile. “There. Was that such a hard thing to say? I look forward to reviewing your entry.”
I left the gallery feeling buoyant, joyful. It was as if saying out loud that I thought highly of my work and of my skills as a photographer really made me own everything. I was going to be a photographer. I didn’t need school or Mercedes or anyone else to tell me that. I knew what I wanted to do with my life, and I didn’t need best friends or lovers or anyone else to make me who I was.
I returned to campus immediately, dashing off to the library to use a computer to examine just what I’d captured on my camera these last few weeks. I recognized some of my classmates from my studio class giving me weird looks, but I ignored them. I figured it was simply fallout from the meltdown I’d suffered when Mercedes pushed me too hard.
I examined the contest rules on the postcard that Mere had given me. There were too many photos that could apply to the specifications. I decided to print out the ones I thought were best and examine them at home. There were more than two hundred, but I had the balance to do it.
I gathered up my printouts and was ready to be on my way when I noticed that one fellow photography major hadn’t stopped staring at me.
“What is it?” I snapped, tucking the sheaf of papers into my bag as neatly as I could.
“It’s just…I thought you dropped out,” he said, shrugging. “Just surprised to see you, I guess.”
I snorted at him and strode out. Dropped out? The idea was ludicrous. I used to be the one who was early to almost every class, more prepared and eager to learn than anyone else there.
I wasn’t that anymore, I realized, slowing my pace as I trekked toward my apartment. I was one of the worst students now. I was behind in the senior project, behind on all other assignments, and lacking clear direction—besides the contest for the gallery, which had precious little to do with my education.
Maybe I should drop out. It didn’t really make sense for me to pretend to attend the institute if I wasn’t actually doing the work or showing up for classes. I could jettison this place easily and make a life for myself somewhere else. All I had to do was stay behind a camera and I knew I would be okay.
I was kneeling on the floor of my apartment, spreading out my printouts, when there was a knock on my door. I paused for a second, wondering who it might be, and continued examining my photos. I wasn’t expecting anyone. There was no one in the world who could possibly have any reason for coming to my door, unannounced, after dark. And if there was such a person, I wasn’t interested in seeing what he or she wanted. I had a mission, and my mission was to figure out which photos to submit for the contest.
The knocking came again, and I expelled an exasperated sigh. Why wouldn’t they take a hint? The lights were on inside, sure, but that didn’t mean that they were welcome, whoever they were. I was busy. I was going to do great things, and I needed to figure out how to move on with my life in order to get these things done.
The third time my mystery caller knocked, I pushed myself up off the floor and stalked to the door.
“What?” I demanded, ripping open the door, my rage instantly faltering when I realized it was Patrick who stood there. How long had it been since I’d seen him, fragile in that hospital bed, a machine acting as a metronome for his heartbeat?
“You haven’t been answering my calls,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
I swallowed. My mouth was inexplicably dry. “I’m just fine. I know you have the resources to figure that out without coming all the way over here.”
“That’s probably true.” His tone was even, reasonable, friendly. “But I wanted to see for myself.”
He was bothering me. I was busy. His appearance at the threshold of my apartment did things to me I couldn’t quite explain. It enraged me, and it made me want to cry. It made me wistful for things that could’ve been. I wanted to shake him and demand an update on his health, on how Shawn was doing, but I didn’t know how to ask such things without coming off as desperate, and I didn’t want to look like I was desperate.
That was just the thing though. I was desperate to hold that green gaze with my own, desperate to fall in his arms, desperate to kiss his lips, and desperate to relearn their touch on mine.
But I was scared to death that, after I’d rejected him, after he’d accepted it without so much as a sigh of protest, he’d look away. I was afraid he’d let me fall instead of catching me. I was afraid he’d turn to the side instead of kissing me.
“Well, now you see,” I said, turning around in a circle sarcastically. I had to be angry to hide that hunger. I didn’t want him to see how big of an effect he still had on me. I didn’t want to give him that power again. I was in charge here. I was the one who made the decision for us not to be together anymore.
But what if it was the wrong decision? What if I’d thrown away the one and only chance I had at being happy?
“I do see,” P
atrick said, his voice soft but not really gentle. It was hard to describe, as if he were whispering so he didn’t snarl.
“What are you doing here, Patrick?” I asked, putting my hands on my hips. “You agreed that we shouldn’t be together.” Why was he lingering at my door?
“Tell me you’re not attracted to me.”
My eyes widened at that. Of course I was attracted to him. His voice, his very presence was intoxicating. I’d missed him, missed our contact, our physicality. I hadn’t been intimate with anyone since, and I missed that addictive, healing release.
“Loren, say it.”
“I’m attracted to you.”
“Then that’s why I’m here.”
Our mouths were on each other, then, hot and sloppy and eager. I took him in my arms, and he kicked the door shut as an afterthought, fully focused on the present. We tore at each other’s clothes until they gave way, and we pressed together, bare flesh against bare flesh. I traced my hand over his chest, and paused. There was something new there.
I pulled away for a moment to examine the unfamiliar terrain, then realized it was a fresh, livid-looking scar. The scar from when Shawn shot him. The terrible thing that I had caused.
“It’s fine, Loren.” Patrick took me by the chin and made me look at him. “It’s fine. Good as new, practically. They tell me I can get plastic surgery to get the scarring reduced even more, but I don’t know. Seems like a silly thing to go under the knife for. I don’t mind it. It doesn’t hurt. And I don’t want you to worry about it.”
That was a lot easier said than done. It was all I could think about even as we kissed, even as his hands explored places I was craving to be touched, even as we forgot about trying to pick our way to the bed and instead slowly settled together on the floor, like the first time we were together, in his house, Patrick reclined, me astride him.
He moved inside me and I responded, tossing my head, murmuring, but I only had eyes for that scar I’d caused. Had the circumstances been different at all—the angle of the gun, the position of Patrick’s body, it was more than probable that he wouldn’t be panting beneath me right now, holding my waist with his hands, looking up at me like I was a delicacy he’d been too long without.
Crushing On The Billionaire (Part 3) Page 3