Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series)

by Persephone Autumn

  “Sounds good. I’ll meet you there in thirty.”

  “Thirty,” she agrees and disconnects the call.

  The server sets down a plate of Pad See-Ew with tofu in front of me and I lean over and breathe deep. My mouth waters at the sweet and savory aroma and I can’t wait to dive in. What is it about Asian food that makes me so damn happy? No one knows the answer—not even me—and I will die happily oblivious. Years ago, Shelly joked I must have been Asian in a former life. When she suggested it, I shrugged and continued shoveling udon noodles in my mouth.

  After the server walks off, I finish my last spring roll while Shelly begins attacking her rice and chicken with green curry. A moan rips from her throat and I laugh at her lack of shame. It is one of her many qualities that makes me love her. Shelly is just one of those humans who is one-hundred-percent herself. Her candid nature refreshing.

  “Good?” I inquire with a layer of sarcasm.

  “Mmm. You have no idea,” she mumbles around the food in her mouth.

  All I can do is shake my head and laugh again. It is at the exact moment when I am shoving my noodle-packed chopsticks between my teeth that Shelly decides to ask me a question. Is that a secret rule at the dinner table? To ask people questions when it is most inconvenient? Seems the case.

  “So, what was it like seeing him again?” Her question is innocent, but I almost choke on my noodles when she asks.

  What was it like?

  Like thirteen years vanished and I saw the first guy I fell in love with standing in front of me. My heart beat behind my rib cage as if I had locked it in a coffin and tossed the key. My heart has never thumped and thrashed so hard, so loud, so uncontrollably in my chest. I broke out in a sweat, nervous to be near him. Nervous to know if he missed me in all the ways I missed him. Nervous to know if he ever thought about me as often as I did—do—him. It was—is—terrifying.

  “It was strange,” I lull. I want to own my truths, but I don’t know what they all are yet. How can I express emotions I don’t quite understand right now? How can I express the cacophony of feelings when they’re a cyclone in my skull?

  Was I ecstatic? Without a doubt. Did I freak out? Definitely. I still am. Did every memory of him come sprinting to the forefront? Most of them. My favorite memories, anyway.

  But it has been several years since we have seen or spoken to each other. He may look the same—with the exception of some added muscles and a semi-different hairstyle—but we are poles apart from who we once were. I can’t speak for Gavin, but our breakup broke me. The loss of him made me view relationships differently.

  Shelly regards me a minute, looking in my eyes and trying to read the deeper meaning I avoid speaking aloud. “No doubt. How many days is he here?”

  “Not sure,” I tell her. Because it is true. I have no idea how long he will stay. Part of me wants and doesn’t want to know when he leaves. “But the shoot ends in seven days. Each shoot is a different location in the area. There’s also a rest day scheduled. How long he’s here after… I’m not asking.”

  She shovels a forkful of meat and rice into her mouth, nodding. When she finishes chewing, her eyes meet mine and she has her protective mask on. “Do you need me to hang around more? While you’re doing the shoot, that is. Kind of like reinforcement, in case he’s being an ass or you need a minute.”

  My heart melts at her sentiment. I have no idea what I did to garner such an amazing friend, but I love Shelly hard. No one comes to my rescue as much as she does. She protects my heart as if it were her own. And she knows I would reciprocate in a heartbeat, if need be.

  “Nah. I’ll be alright. I just need to keep my focus and not let my mind drift to the what ifs like it has before.” Too often, I have thought over every possible what if. And it does nothing but give me anxiety.

  “Fine. But the first time he fucks shit up, I’m kicking his ass.”

  Her face is dead serious, but all I respond with is a laugh. One that starts in my belly and rises quickly in my throat. The hearty laugh cathartic and exactly what I need after today. There is my Shelly. The best sidekick a friend could ask for.

  “I know you will.” I reach over the table and pat her shoulder. “I know you will.”

  Chapter Six

  Gavin

  People. Are. Everywhere. Surrounding and trapping me. Bodies rub against mine. Music blares so loud, hearing will be a challenge in the morning. Micah picked some bar and restaurant on North Indian Rocks Beach. I don’t remember the name, nor do I care. All that matters is being out of that hotel.

  What I do care about is personal space. And these fucking people don’t seem to understand the concept. Claustrophobia has never come up as an issue, but in the last couple of days it has consumed me. I just like personal boundaries. And it seems as if everyone has forgotten what they are. Seems as if everyone is in on some massive joke to crowd me.

  “You alright, man?” Micah asks when he notices me tense on my stool.

  “Just a little crowded in here.”

  “Sorry about that. You know how it is this time of year. Spring break seems to go on till the end of April. You want to head somewhere else?”

  Dragging in a breath, I answer, “No. Crowds tend to freak me out more now. You think I’d be used to crowds with my job and people doing whatever they can to catch my attention. But nope. Still don’t want people in my perimeter.” I draw an imaginary bubble around my body for emphasis.

  Micah slaps me on the back and adds a laugh for good measure. “Some things never change.” He pauses to take a swig from his beer. “How’ve you been, man? It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you.”

  Guilt rushes through me. It had been close to six months since I last spoke with Micah. Time escaped me as life got busier. But I had known for a few months I was returning to the area. So why hadn’t I messaged or called him to let him know? The answer hits me like a bulldozer and I know exactly why I didn’t tell him.

  Cora.

  Although Micah’s connection to Cora is weak at best, his sister is best friends with her. So, if I had told Micah, he might have shared with his sister without thinking and so on. Things would have been much worse than they were today. And the potential for Cora backing out of the magazine shoot early on was higher. Although neither of us knew we would be working together, she would have put two and two together if Micah started talking.

  “Yeah, I apologize. Things have been mad busy with work. Every time I thought to reach out to you, I was in the middle of something. By the time I was free, I’d forgotten. Time got away from me.” I give him a sheepish shrug.

  “It’s all good. Just don’t do it again,” he teases.

  For the next two hours, we sit on stools and drink beers and share chicken wings. We catch up on what has been happening outside our work lives. At all costs, we both do a damn fine job of avoiding the topic of Cora. And although it is still early, we both agree to leave. In the time since we have come in, the bar has gone from packed to overflowing and I am at my whit’s end.

  Micah offers to drive me back to my hotel, rather than let me wait for an Uber. No doubt they are probably bombarded this time of year on the beach. On the short drive, we discuss getting together another few times before I leave. When he drops me at the hotel, we agree to go out night after tomorrow. And as Micah drives off, I vow to be a better friend to my best friend. Thousands of miles may divide our houses, but calls and texts and airplanes can solve those problems and I need to put in more effort.

  The elevator ride is brief. Although I took a shower earlier, the sea of sweaty bodies from the bar has me jumping in the shower again.

  The hot water hits my back and I brace my hands on the white tile wall in front of me and hang my head. My breath comes heavy and fast. My mind running overtime as it scans its memory bank for images of Cora. It doesn’t take long. Never has. One of my favorites pops up. An image I have plucked from my memory bank numerous times when shit has gotten bad.

 
Her onyx black hair hugged her face like an embrace. A smile lit up her lips and curved the corners of her pale green eyes. Eyes that stole my breath every time she looked at me. Every time she got serious and told me she loved me. That she would love me forever, no matter what.

  That blip in time was the week before my mom received a promotion and was transferred from Florida to California. I had only been given two weeks before my life would become something polar opposite. And like an asshole, I waited until a week before we had to leave to tell Cora. It was selfish of me, but I didn’t want to ruin the last bit of time with her. I didn’t want to spend our last weeks together like one of us was on our death bed and trying to complete some bucket list.

  Does that still hold true? Does she still love me? After the separation—the rift—is it possible there is still a part of her that loves me? Even if the tiniest of slivers, a micro-blip in the cosmos, I will accept whatever she offers.

  Does that make me a fool? Desperate? Probably. Fuck if I care.

  Her face flashes across the backs of my eyelids like a movie. The way she used to smile at me and press her lips to mine. Heat radiates in my chest and I press a hand against my breastbone, suppressing the ache that slowly builds every time I allow myself to fantasize about her. And after thirteen years, the ache burns fresh.

  I remember the first time she laid beneath me, her bare flesh warm and trembling against mine. I had asked her why she was shaking and she had said because I love you so much. I clutch my chest harder as the backs of my eyes sting.

  We were so many firsts for each other. Relationship. Kiss. Love. Sexual partner. And heartbreak.

  And even though I broke her heart, even though I broke every promise I made her, I will kill any man who does the same.

  Shoving back the curtains and sliding the balcony door open, I stare out at the beach and notice how quiet it is this time of the morning. The waves break at the shoreline. Salt and a hint of shea butter linger in the air, sticking to my skin. The horizon still somewhat dark with a tinge of peach skirting between the water and sky.

  Silent. Peaceful. And the perfect start to my day.

  Couples holding hands. Single people with their dog. Majority of the people walking through the sand at this hour are probably residents, enjoying the beach before it is littered with tourists.

  I plan to do the same.

  Slipping on a pair of board shorts and a plain T-shirt, I step into my flip-flops and head for the beach. The moment my feet hit the sand, I take off my shoes and wiggle the fine grains between my toes. Beaches in California are different than those in Florida. People flock to the beach in California, but not like they do in Florida. Out west, the sand is course and damp. The water cold, even during the hottest part of the year.

  But not in West Florida. Here, the sand is fine like fairy dust and as warm as a lasting hug. I rake my toes in the grains before walking to the edge of the surf. Stare at the horizon and soak in the view. God, I have missed this place. The warmth and smells and sounds and vibrance.

  I walk along the shoreline, lost in my own head for an hour, before heading back to my room and dressing in the beach gear for today’s shoot. Basically, I trade one pair of board shorts for another. The same with my shirt and shoes. Stupid, but it pays the bills.

  As I walk out of my room, my phone chimes and I check to see a text from Alyson.

  Alyson: Good morning. I won’t be at the shoot today. Think I caught something on the plane. In bed & not doing so well.

  Gavin: Sorry you feel like shit. Need me to get you anything?

  Alyson: No. I called room service and they’re bringing me the works. Thanks.

  Gavin: Okay. Let me know if you need me to get you anything later.

  Alyson: All I need is for you to take awesome photos & be on your best behavior.

  Gavin: Aren’t I always?

  Our texts end when she sends me an eye-rolling emoji. She knows me too well. But Alyson also knows I won’t ruin this for any of us. Personally, there is no doubt she loves messing with me as much as I do her. Probably the reason we work so well together.

  And although Alyson lies in bed sick, an over-stretched smile tightens my cheeks. Knowing I will see Cora in less than ten minutes has my synapsis firing double time. We are scheduled to meet on the beach by the gate for the hotel patrons. If lucky, maybe today I can convince her to have dinner with me. Just me and her. Some good food and conversation. No promises. Just two people with history catching up with each other.

  At least that is what I try to convince myself.

  Chapter Seven

  Cora

  It might be completely out of my way, but I leave my house early and drive to my favorite juice place in Dunedin. When I step inside, the owner is busy making an açai bowl for the only other person. I walk over to the cooler across from the bar top seating and grab my favorite juice from the shelf.

  The owner promises she will be with me in a minute and I nod. I sit at the long dining table and look at the cute bohemian décor along the walls and tables. There is a small couch, chairs, and coffee table opposite the dining table. A couple times, I have come in and sat at this very table and done photo edits while enjoying one of their bowls. It can be noisy at times, but it doesn’t bother me when I get in the zone.

  The woman before me pays and leaves. I head for the register and am surprised when I spot my favorite bowl packed into a container and waiting for me. Setting my juice down, she bags everything and I pay.

  “Thanks for remembering,” I tell her. Perhaps I visit more than I realize. Guess there are worse addictions to have.

  “You’re welcome. Have a great one,” she says and waves as I go.

  I decide to drive along Edgewater and am glad I do. The sun is barely in the sky, so the hues are soft and muted and it makes for a beautiful morning and backdrop to wake up to. For me, to love photography is to love getting lost in everything. Landscape and architecture and strangers. Everything and everyone has its own beauty. My job is to locate that one angle or profile or perfect lighting and accentuate it. The job is equal parts challenging and artistic. Keeps my blood pumping and my mind churning.

  I glimpse the skyline as I drive over the Memorial Causeway. If it remains a little cloudy, it will be perfect for taking photos. One less piece of equipment to lug on the beach.

  Arriving at the hotel thirty minutes earlier than necessary, I park and take my breakfast to a bench by the sand. I sit and watch the surf, enjoying the quiet before all the bodies fill in the empty sand. I am two bites away from finishing when I see a familiar silhouette walking toward the hotel’s guest gate on and off the beach.

  Gavin.

  For the love of all that is holy in this world. Some divine intervention needs to swoop down and rescue me from this man. As hard as I work to keep him at arm’s length, failure takes residence in my veins. Gavin has been—and probably will always be—my one weakness. The boy who captured my heart, held it prisoner, and took it with him when he left.

  Last night, for the first time in years, my sleep was shit. My mind cycled through every moment we were together. Remembering the way my skin heated when his fingers painted over my flesh. How he always found a way to touch me, even if it was only him tucking my hair behind my ear. The way his eyes held mine. As if nothing else mattered or ever would. And his smell… an odd mix of beach and pine. Nothing compared to Gavin’s hypnotic scent.

  All night, memories of him and us flickered through my head like an old black and white movie. And no matter how hard I tried, no matter what I did, the flashbacks wouldn’t shut off. Eventually, exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep. This was four hours ago.

  Seeing him now, when he is himself and oblivious to my voyeurism, has my stomach doing somersaults. How much of Gavin is real and how much is for show? Working in an industry where you’re in the limelight hardens you. Changes fragments and splinters of who you are. But in the end, how much of Gavin is still inside?

  T
he Gavin I knew, those two perfect years, is not the same as the man walking inside the hotel. Yes, they are spitting images—time has been kind to him—but when it comes to personality… current Gavin is a douchebag. He has got an ego bigger than the state of Florida. And his general attitude could use a little love.

  Parts of me want to believe it is forced; all for show. Yes, he was a bit confident when we were together, but he never displayed it in front of others like a badge of honor. Is he like this with his family? The day he acts like a dick in front of his parents is the day lightning strikes me down.

  I finish the last of my bowl and toss my container and utensil in the recycling bin. Walking back to the car, I spot Erin pulling in and give her a wave. She parks near me and we start hauling equipment from our cars and into a collapsible buggy. We lock up and start walking to where we told Gavin to meet us.

  Erin glances at me from the corner of her eye and her inspection weighs heavy. It is way too early for this. Too early for inquisitions and judgment. Please don’t let this be how my entire day goes.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing.” She is quick to respond. “You look a little tired is all.”

  “Your assessment would be accurate. I had trouble sleeping last night.”

  If possible, she studies me harder. Her eyes narrow and her head tilts as she assesses me like a mother. “Any particular reason why?”

  And seeing as I am fueled on three hours of sleep and the breakfast I just consumed, I fire off, “Oh, you know. Just another asshole I have to take pictures of.” Damn, I am feisty already.

  She stops walking and gasps, her hand flying over her mouth. “Did you just say that? Or am I hearing things?”