I rest my elbow on my knee and think about this. I tell Dylan it’s strange because parents wait their whole lives for us to finally grow up and be independent. Then, as soon as we become adults, they panic and try to reel us back in. They don’t know how to let us make our own decisions because they don’t want to see us fail. They want to protect us. But they have to let us make mistakes. I suddenly feel bad for parents. It can’t be an easy job.
“So,” Dylan continues, “When I decided to come home, I wanted to be with you. Because you’ve never once tried to change me or force me to settle down or ask me why I take pictures all day or why I can’t focus on one thought for more than five seconds. I’m learning that’s pretty rare.”
She rests her boney knee against mine and I’m frozen by how that tiny amount of contact feels like electricity.
“Remember how easy last summer was?” she asks. I keep my eyes safely away from hers and nod. “It was just you and me, everyday,” she says. “No obligations, no responsibilities.”
“Hey, Video Hutch was extremely important to me,” I argue.
She stares up at the ceiling and smiles. I glance at her profile, a face I’ve studied longer than any book, any lesson. And just like that, I’m in love with her again. I let my guard down for two seconds and this is what happens. I wonder if she can sense it and if Dylan’s anything like I remember, she can.
“I wish we could go back there. Just you and me and the desert,” she says.
“Our house on Camelback,” I say.
She nods. “Boba.”
I lift my hand and trace a finger down Dylan’s arm.
I swallow. It’s so easy. Her lips are inches away from mine. I can smell her skin. I close my eyes. I think about song lyrics. It Ain’t Me Babe, by Bob Dylan. Don’t Come Around Here No More, by Tom Petty. I let the words try to talk sense into me.
“I should go,” I say. It’s barely been a week. I need to be stronger than this. I need to be the one calling the shots. I can’t just give into the moment.
I stand up and Dylan’s watching me. Her face is flushed and there’s a question in her eyes I can read.
“I’ve been thinking about all this,” I say. “About us.” She waits for me to continue. I tuck my hands in my front pockets and stare at my feet. “Maybe we can try to just be friends.”
I glance down at her and there’s this surprised look in her eyes. “Friends?” She thinks about this for a few seconds. “We could try that,” she says, but her face is doubtful.
“I’ve never tried to be friends with any of my exes,” I add.
“Exes.” She says the word out loud with a blank look on her face.
“Yeah, but maybe it could work.”
She narrows her eyes for a moment, like she’s testing me. “Sure. Friends.” She stands up, reaches her hand out and we shake on it. Just shaking her hand makes me want to pull her against me.
“As long as you still let me love you,” she says.
I let go of her hand. “You love everyone, Dylan.”
I downplay her words. I dilute the meaning because it’s my only way to beat her.
“Okay,” she says. “Just so you know.” She says goodnight and I shut the door behind me.
DYLAN
I stare at the door and try to mentally digest what just happened. Friends? He seriously expects me to be his friend? I don’t want to have sex with my friends. I don’t look at my friends and think they are God’s sexiest creation. I don’t want to rip the clothes off of my friends and marry my friends. I don’t want to grow old with my friends until we’re withered like raisins.
Does Gray think love comes with a dial you can use to control how strong the current flows? Is he trying to keep it on low when I want to crank it to extreme? Who wants to live on a low voltage? Where’s the fun in that?
I sigh and fall back on the futon. I want to stand outside Gray’s window and blare the chorus of Strange Currencies so REM can explain how I feel using lyrics and melodramatic guitar chords. I want more than his forgiveness. I want more than his trust. I want all of him.
“Can we at least be friends with benefits?” I say to the ceiling.
GRAY
Friends. Brilliant fucking cop-out, Gray. Like you can keep your hands off of her. If life came with an audience, mine would be laughing hysterically right now.
I drive down the road and consider my offer. It was a desperate idea that seemed right at the time. But more than anything, I just panicked. Note to self: Do not make relationship decisions under the influence of sexual frustration.
Friends. Is that even remotely possible?
Can you control how much you love someone? Maybe I can try. It’s a psychological research experiment and I’ve volunteered myself as the lucky guinea pig. Yay, me.
I mentally list reasons why I can be friends with Dylan. Reason one: I’m not really attracted to her anymore. Okay, who am I kidding? I want to touch her every second I’m next to her. And when I’m not next to her. Scratch that one.
Reason two: I’ll hardly see her, between school and games and studying.
Reason three: I’ll date other women (hopefully with more success).
Reason four: Dylan doesn’t have a cell phone, so it’s not like I can get in touch with her that easily.
I turn up the volume of my stereo and tap my fingers on the steering wheel.
Friends. It could happen.
I nod to myself and feel safe with this new plan. As long as I’m calling the shots, I can handle this. I just need the upper hand. I make the plays. I set the dates. I draw the boundaries. That’s how I keep her at arm’s length. And my heart safe.
GRAY
It’s our third Sunday night dinner and the word has gotten out. Our guest list has grown, so Dylan sets up a folding table next to the kitchen table. A few more guys from the team show up. Travis continues to invite himself over, and Dylan brings Cat with her this time, which gets Miles so worked up he barely eats. Todd invites his girlfriend, Liz. They’ve been dating since high school. Liz always looks perfect, like she gets out of bed in the morning with her blond hair parted and her bangs neatly aligned. Her outfits make her look like a walking Old Navy commercial. She’s getting her teaching certificate, and she’s always busying volunteering at their church and leading bible studies and organizing food drives. Her name should be Linda.
We’re all sitting around the table digesting and suddenly Todd clears his throat and says he has news.
“Liz and I are engaged,” he blurts.
Everyone’s silent and I look around to see Bubba shocked, Miles amused, and Dylan impressed. I stare back at Todd like he’s nuts. They’re only twenty years old! They can’t get married. Then again, I proposed to Dylan last summer. But that wasn’t real. I don’t think. Maybe? No.
Dylan’s voice cuts through the stifled silence and she makes a toast. Everyone’s taking turns congratulating them. Todd says they’re having a judge perform the ceremony. It’s going to be simple, with only their parents, because they can’t afford a big wedding. They’re going to throw a dinner party at Liz’s parents’ house to celebrate and we’re all invited. It’s the Sunday over Memorial Day weekend, one of the few days we have off from our game schedule.
Wow. I’m officially old. Have we really hit the marriage zone?
Dylan’s keeping the conversation going and asks all the right questions and Liz is beaming and Todd is all proud. For some reason, I’m annoyed. Bored. But also jealous. I look across the table at these two friends who have found it: life-long love. I wonder why some people get to experience it, and some don’t and some trip over it and break apart and die with broken hearts. I wonder who chooses our destiny, if it’s a god, or fate, or karmic luck. I look at Dylan across the table. She looks beautiful as she smiles for them and celebrates with them and I wonder why I’m not enough for her unconditional love.
After dinner we start cleaning up. Miles is flirting with Cat, Bubba’s doing dishes with Lenn
y, and Todd and Liz are sitting side-by-side on the couch watching reality TV, like the boring married couple they’re soon to become. All these people look so happy and satisfied that it’s making me sick.
I can barely look at Dylan because it makes something hollow unfurl. And it aches.
DYLAN
“Come on Dylan, just get it over with,” Gray tells me.
I persuaded Gray to come with me today, to be my wing man as I show my photography, for the first time, to a local gallery. Gray told me he knows a little bit about the business since his sister worked in a gallery for two years, so he penciled me into his schedule for a quick hour. It’s a rare window of time he’s giving me these days. He seems to be going out of his way to avoid me.
He’s walking down the block towards the gallery, but I’m stalling. I remind Gray I’ve never done anything like this before. He tells me he has my back.
“Just be your confident self,” he says. “Hold your head up high and make them think they should be thanking you for even considering them. It’s all in the attitude.”
Normally I am confident, but it’s different with my photography. It’s like handing over a piece of my soul to be criticized. I look through the glass windows at elegant black and white photos on the walls outlined in sleek, black frames, showcased under bright spotlights.
“Maybe I should start smaller,” I say. “I could put up some prints in a coffee shop, or a restaurant or a Laundromat.”
Gray stops at the door and looks at me. “A Laundromat?”
I shrug. “Maybe it’s an untapped market.”
“If people can’t afford a washer and dryer, I doubt they invest in much original artwork,” he informs me as he opens the glass door.
I tuck my portfolio under my arm and take a deep breath. We walk into a room that smells upscale, like polish and perfume and the lighting is amazing and I’m way out of league.
“Can I help you?” a woman behind the counter says to us. She’s older, with curly gray hair and long silver earrings that sway back and forth. She regards me carefully, her eyes scanning my clothes and my face. I walk up to the counter and set my portfolio down between us, next to a glass vase full of colorful wild flowers. A few quiet seconds crawl by.
“That’s a beautiful flower arrangement,” I finally say and point to the vase and the woman thanks me. I start to turn around because I can’t go through with this, but Gray blocks me with his leg and keeps my feet pinned between him and the counter. I take a deep breath.
“My name’s Dylan and I’m interested in showcasing some of my photography here,” I say quickly so I can get it all out.
She smiles at me, but it’s a sympathetic smile that makes me cringe.
“We aren’t looking for new clients at the moment,” she says. “There’s a waiting list for wall space so we have to be very selective.” She doesn’t even glance at my album. “We also only take photographers with professional experience,” she says. “The owner makes the final decision, but I screen the photos first.”
My mouth is drying up. Is it just me, or is there not enough oxygen in this room? And why is it suddenly a hundred degrees? I nod and turn to leave again, but Gray grabs my arm tight and holds me in place.
“Why don’t you at least take a look?” Gray asks and slides the portfolio closer to her. “Before you pass up an opportunity?” He squeezes my arm with encouragement before he lets it go. I figure, at the very least, Gray is touching me again. It’s not a complete waste of an afternoon.
She glances down at the binder and back at me. She asks me where I went to school for photography.
“Uh,” I stammer. “Mesa Community College,” I say. She waits for me to continue so I lie and tell her I also had an apprenticeship with a nature photographer in California, but he’s pretty exclusive so she’s probably never heard of him. In my defense, this is partly true. I spent a few days traveling around with my friend Jake, in Shasta County. He just didn’t happen to be a professional and I was the one training him.
“How old are you?” she asks. I bluff.
“Twenty-three.” I widen my shoulders as if this will make me look older.
She makes a ticking sound with her tongue that is god-awful intimidating. “That’s pretty young,” she says. “Most of our photographers are veterans in the business. All of them have some sort of background, either print work or online.”
“She also works with me,” Gray adds, “for a magazine.” He gives her his most charming smile. I notice her features soften a little; it’s a calming effect Gray’s smile generally has on women. I step in while we have a window of a chance.
“Right,” I say. “We work for—”
“An independent weekly,” he says. “Published in—”
“Wisconsin,” I finish.
Gray tightens his lips together and glances at me.
“Interesting,” she says. “What brings you two all the way to New Mexico?”
Gray starts. “We’re…doing a spread on—”
“Pueblo community life in the Southwest,” I finish.
Gray and I both shut our traps before we have to spread another lie, but this woman looks amused. She picks up my portfolio and starts to flip through the pictures. I describe the theme, that it’s a series of shots taken from a squirrel’s perspective and her face is deadpan. She looks up at me and I wait for her to call me a liar and throw me out of her store. Maybe first she’ll clonk me on the head with my album.
She opens her mouth to comment and every muscle in my neck tenses up.
“How much do you charge for your prints?” she asks. I stare back at her and my mouth falls open. Gray pokes me in the back.
“It varies,” I say. I have no clue.
“We don’t have space for these in the gallery right now, but I know someone who would love them. She’s obsessed with squirrels. I think she feeds half of this city’s population.” I expect her to give me a phone number, but instead she just yells.
“Mary, get out here and see this!”
Gray and I exchange glances.
Another woman walks out, older, probably in her late sixties, a veil of sophistication suspended in the air around her. She’s wearing a fitted black blazer and slacks. Her thin hair is dyed light blond and there’s so much hair-spray not a single strand moves when she walks. My eyes fall to her feet, which are dressed in red moccasins. Her shoes make me smile. I might have a chance.
She grabs my portfolio and I explain my theme again. She stares me up and down and sifts through the photos in record speed. I watch the diamond rings on her fingers sparkle in the light as she flips her wrist. Then, something catches her eye and she slows down. She goes back over each photo, one by one and minutes go by without a word. I’m sweating.
“Very creative,” she says and she reaches out her hand and introduces herself as Mary, the owner of the gallery. Then she introduces the woman behind the counter, Barb, as her assistant.
She holds the album against her chest and taps her red fingernails on the leather.
“These would go great in my office,” she says and Barb nods. Mary gives me a critical stare. “How much for the set?” she asks.
I bite my bottom lip and look at Gray for help.
Gray leans his hand casually on the counter and creases his forehead. “What was your last offer?” he asks me. “I forget.”
A competitive fire sparks Mary’s light blue eyes. I finally see what sets this woman off. I’m wondering if fifty dollars is too much to ask.
“I’ll give you a hundred and fifty for the set,” she offers.
“A hundred and fifty dollars?” I say, shocked.
Barb interjects. “Mary, don’t take advantage of the poor girl. That’s great work. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Fine,” Mary says. “One seventy-five.”
I’m in over my head and then Gray opens his mouth. “Didn’t someone offer you two hundred?” he asks me.
I stare back at Mary an
d try to look modest.
She narrows her eyes but I see determination behind them. “How many photos are in here?”
“Eighteen,” I say.
“Fine, two-fifty.”
Two hundred and fifty dollars!? I don’t know where I get the nerve to do this, but I raise the stakes.
“With one more agreement,” I say.
“What’s that?”
“Let me show some of my photos here. I’d like some wall space, please,” I say.
Mary and Barb exchange glances and Barbs asks if I do portraits.
I shake my head. “I’m not a fan of posed pictures,” I say. “I like catching people when they’re being natural. When they don’t expect it. Portraits are too forced. It isn’t authentic to me.”
“So what do you prefer to do?” Mary asks and she seems intrigued.
“Anything. People. Animals. Landscapes. Architecture.” I tell them about one of my favorite series I did recently. It’s a set where I’ve taken pictures of people either caught in genuine laughter, or frozen in pouts. I tell them it’s a mix of all ages. I explain my favorite picture, taken of a boy I caught sitting in the back of a truck and—
“Give her some space,” Mary decides.
Barb glances through her desk calendar. “In six weeks I can fit you in.”
“Give her fifteen spaces for the set she just described. There’s wall space in the back showroom. We’ll squeeze her in now.”
“Fine,” Barb says. “I can fit you in for our show next Friday,” she says. “Come three days in advance with fifteen of your best shots, all eight by eleven. Keep it to all color or all black and white. We take thirty-five percent of the sales.” She hands me a sheet with the terms, pricing and selling conditions and tells me to read it over and sign it when I come back.
“That’s it?” I say.
Gray senses my question and steps in. “Can you explain how your shows run? Every gallery’s a little different.” Mary explains they have two Friday night showings a month with drinks and appetizers.
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