by Ann Grech
“You know who’s jumping?” he asked in a smooth voice after I lowered my camera. Hearing it sent a shiver through me. Quiet but strong, I wanted to hear him speak again.
“No. I’m a photographer.” I paused, grinning to myself. “It’s my first job here. I’m Angelo by the way.”
“Trent.”
I reached out and took his hand, my gaze snagging on his eyes. I sank into their fathomless depths. They say the eyes are the windows to a person’s soul, and his were no exception. The darkest brown I’d ever seen, his eyes were filled with a grief that both transfixed and saddened me. What pain had he been through? Instantly I knew I’d been wrong in my original assumption. He didn’t have a bad attitude. Something or someone had hurt him, and it made me want to reach out and heal him. I didn’t warm up to people easily. I didn’t like making new friends. Ironic really, when you consider I’d left my best friend—my sister, Gabriella—in Italy to join my brother in New Zealand. He was the only person I really knew, even though I’d met a couple of his other friends too. But looking at Trent, I was certain I’d met someone who would become important to me. It was crazy, but I just knew we’d become friends.
When he withdrew his hand, I jerked back in surprise, embarrassed that I was still staring at him. I expected him to be creeped out and leave quick smart. If it were me on the receiving end, I totally would have dropped the bags he was holding and walked back to my ride. But Trent didn’t move. Instead, he stayed beside me and, in another first for me, helped swap out my lenses so I could keep photographing the scenes playing out in my viewfinder. When the sun reached just the right height in the sky, he held up a light reflector. For that split second, the lighting was perfect. I scrambled to adjust the exposure rate and held my finger down on the shutter. I hoped it’d give the shots a natural glow, softening them at the same time as adding the perception of speed. I easily had a hundred shots by the time I wrapped up a couple of hours later, my arms aching from keeping the camera steady.
“I could eat a horse,” I announced, taking the last of my bags from Trent and sliding them in the trunk of my car. “Want to join me?”
“Nah, I shouldn’t,” he replied. He may have said no, but I wasn’t convinced he really wanted to. Hands jammed in his pockets and his head low again, he looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
“Let me say thank you for helping me. It would have taken me much longer to get the shots if I didn’t have your help, and I wouldn’t have been able to take some of them at all,” I persisted. Seeing a small smile tilt his lips, I added, “Your choice of place.” That seemed to push him over and he gave me a small nod. “Great. Where are you parked?”
“Oh, I ah, caught the bus out.”
“Great, hop in and you can give me directions.” I slid into the driver side and waited for Trent to follow me. I couldn’t say that I’d ever picked up a man on the side of a highway either, but I was apparently in for a day of new experiences.
“You’re Italian, right?” he asked, not waiting for me to answer before he continued. “Don’t they drive on the other side of the road over there?”
“Sì,” I responded, smiling. “I’m getting used to driving on the wrong side.”
We ended up at a sports bar I’d never have guessed was there. Nestled away down an alley, it was up a rickety set of stairs and behind an unmarked door. I had no idea whether only locals were welcome, and I didn’t care either. The atmosphere immediately drew me in. Mood lighting set over the booths gave the place a sense of intimacy, but the match playing on giant wrap-around screens that lined the walls of the bar added enough light that the room wasn’t filled with shadows. International beers on tap and mouthwatering-smelling burgers and hot dogs on a constant stream from the swinging doors of the kitchen had my stomach grumbling.
I’d heard of rugby being referred to as football before, but I’d never seen a game. After five minutes of watching, I had yet to see the players kick the ball, and it was lost on me why it could be called footy. I was familiar with the real football, the world game, soccer, whatever you wanted to call it, but I gathered Trent knew quite a bit about rugby. He caught my confused look when the ball was simply handed over to the other side after what looked like an all-in brawl.
“That was a penalty, so the team lost possession of the ball. Those guys tossing it now are your forwards. They carry the ball toward their try line and through the back rowers—the defensive players. See how they’re passing it back? No one can throw the ball forward; the players catching it have to be behind the person throwing the ball. The other team can tackle players to get the footy, but there are rules on how you can do it. Too high or too low and you’ll get a penalty. The aim is to touch the ball on the ground past the try line within five tackles. If they don’t, they lose possession of the ball.”
“Okay.” I nodded. Makes sense. Kind of. Not really. “So what’s the try line?”
He attempted to stifle his grin but failed. “The line at the end of the field where the goal posts are. Cross that and you’ll score six points. Then, if the team can convert it, they’ll get an extra two.” Before I could ask how to convert it, Trent continued explaining, “The team’s kicker will kick the ball and try to get it through the posts. That’s a conversion.”
“Which team do you support?” I asked around a sip of my beer.
“Neither of these two.” He pointed to the screen with his glass. “They’re Aussie teams. I used to go for the Hamilton team, but I’m not much of a follower anymore.” He quietened and seemed to lose himself in his drink, staring at the ice cubes floating in the amber liquid. The pain I’d seen etched into his expression flashed over his features but was gone a second later when he shook his head and looked up at me. I would have missed the somber moment if I’d blinked, but it was definitely there.
I wanted to return to the easy banter we’d had a moment ago, but I fumbled for a question, not knowing much about him. Then I realized it was the perfect opportunity to learn more. I asked him about his work and his expression cleared. He sat straighter and a smile broke out over those model-worthy lips.
“I’m a paramedic.” His job was obviously something that made him proud, as he should have been. “During winter, I work on the slopes at the Remarkables, and the rest of the year round I’m in a bus answering emergency calls.”
“Yeah? You might know my brother’s friend. Ford, I think his name is. I met him the other night. I think he works at the Remarkables too.”
Trent laughed. “Small world. Ford’s my boss. Who’s your brother?”
“Riccardo. Well, Ricky. He’s a pilot.”
“I know Ricky. He’s good people. Tell him I said hi.”
When my brother had first moved out here with his freshly minted helicopter pilot’s license, I’d thought he was crazy. He’d moved literally across the other side of the world from everything we’d known, spurred only by the job offer in his hand. But when I visited, I understood why he loved flying here. I’d seen it the moment the plane started to descend toward the runway nestled between the mountain range capped in white. It had taken me two days into my first visit to decide I wanted to move to Queenstown too and another year to make it happen. Now, sitting in that bar watching a game I still didn’t understand with a person I wanted to become a friend and a budding photography business, I was hopeful and happy.
“To new friends,” I toasted, holding my nearly empty glass up to Trent’s, who mirrored my move. I smiled and knew I’d made the right decision.
The next time I looked down at my watch, it was after six. Trent and I had spent the whole afternoon talking and laughing. We both loved skiing, but he’d only ever experienced it in Queenstown. My hometown in Italy, Santa Caterina di Valfurva, was on the slopes, and I’d traveled through Europe. We both liked to keep fit, but where I enjoyed swimming and hiking, Trent ran and often lifted weights. We both had a sweet tooth; desserts were our weakness, but cannoli—those perfect pastr
y cylinders filled with vanilla and chocolate custard and coated in icing sugar—were our Achilles’ heel. I also wasn’t alone in my weird obsession for the reality TV documentaries Alaska: The Last Frontier and Deadliest Catch.
We both needed to get home, but saying goodbye was kind of a downer. I’d had fun, and I didn’t want it to end. I wanted to ask for his number so we could catch up again but felt ridiculous asking for it. How does a grown man ask another dude to be his friend? Figuring that I’d see him again through my brother and our mutual friends, I let him go, watching as Trent weaved through the crowds on the sidewalk.
It was Saturday morning when the knock on my door sounded. The sun hadn’t even risen when my brother called me urgently. “Angelo, get up. You have a call you want to take.” I rubbed my eyes groggily, wanting to ignore him and sleep in. It was cold out and I was warm under the down covers. But then his words sunk in and I was instantly awake.
“What call? Who?” I asked around a yawn, stumbling from my bed and tripping over myself to get to the door. When I opened it, Riccardo was wearing sweats—much like me—and a grin that lit up his face.
“It’s Ford. He said you met Trent?” Ricky held out his cell to me as I nodded and took it from him.
“Hello,” I spoke into the device, “Angelo speaking.”
“Angelo, hey. I’m so glad I caught you. I’ve just been on the phone with Trent. He’s got a friend who’s getting married today and their photographer called in sick. She’s got gastro or something.” He sounded annoyed and frazzled as he spoke a mile a minute. My brain struggled to wrap itself around his pace this early in the morning. “Anyway, Trent said that the couple are in a panic but thought you could help them. He didn’t have your number, so he called me. Can you call him? They’ll pay you.” I stood there, stunned for a moment after Ford finished speaking; it took a second for his words to sink in. As they did, I grinned, and the soft spot I’d developed for my new friend grew. Hell yes! I had my second job because of Trent. I was likely the only photographer in Queenstown who wasn’t booked months in advance, so they didn’t really have much of a choice, but I still took it as a win. And the fact that Trent had referred me made me smile even wider.
“What’s Trent’s number?” I asked, knowing I’d do whatever I could to help his friends.
Ford rattled off Trent’s details, and I called him. In an hour, I’d managed to pack my gear, shower, eat, and get dressed, but I was flustered. I hated not doing things precisely and this felt very half-assed. I had no idea of what the couple wanted and I hadn’t even thought to ask what the dress code was. For all I knew, it was a lumberjack-themed wedding and I was wearing a bow tie.
“You look good, Angelo,” Ricky said encouragingly from the doorway to his bedroom. He was getting ready for work too, his sweats having been replaced by an olive-green flight suit.
“Thanks.” I nodded and threw him a smile as I adjusted the clip on my suspenders. “Guess I’ll see you sometime tonight.” I dashed down the stairs and out the front door, clutching my camera bag like a lifeline and counting my equipment out in my head. I hoped I hadn’t forgotten anything. It was only ten minutes later that I was standing at the hotel’s reception asking for them to call up to the bride’s room.
The man who met me at the elevator took one look at me and engulfed me in a hug. “Thank you. I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t come through.” I patted his back uncomfortably, and he pulled back, laughing at himself. “Look at me, I’m all emotional. My baby girl is getting married and I’m gushing. Come on up….” He hesitated, and I took my cue.
“Angelo di Pasqua. Congratulations on the wedding. And really, it’s no problem. I’m new to Queenstown and still building my client base here, so you’re doing me a favor too.”
Photographing the bride getting ready had me loving every moment of this job. Jenna had had a shit of a morning but was still beaming. One of those rare super-chilled brides, she was fun to be around. Her bridesmaids, on the other hand, were both tipsy and handsy. As pretty as those ladies were, they were like ravenous wolves too. By the third time they referred to me as a “sexy slab of man meat” I was grateful that it was time for me to head over to the groom’s house where he was dressing.
I didn’t expect to find what I did at the groom’s house. The men in every wedding party I’d ever photographed had always left getting dressed until the last minute, but they were usually drinking and watching sport. This groom and his friends were up ladders building a gazebo in the yard of a house that was mid-renovation. “G’day, mate,” he said by way of greeting, a giant power drill in hand. “Gimme ten and I’ll be down.”
“You’ve only got twenty minutes before you need to leave for the church,” I sputtered. “You’re wearing work clothes!”
“I’ll be down in a sec to grab a quick shower and get dressed. She’ll be right.”
“I’m not worried about her,” I muttered under my breath. “She’ll be at the ceremony on time.”
Clearly that wasn’t the right thing to say because the groom’s friend boomed out a laugh and clapped me on the back, his meaty paw nearly sending me sprawling. “She’ll be right’s’ a saying, bro.” I shook my head and snapped some photos of the groom walking along beams and screwing down sheets of roofing to the frame. The friend continued talking to me, “That’s his missus’s wedding present. She’s wanted one for years, but you know how chippies are—they build everyone else’s shit and leave their own place half finished.”
“Like you can talk, Jay,” the groom called out. “Now shut the fuck up and catch this, will ya?” He lowered the drill by its cord, and Jay reached up for it, unplugging it and putting it in a hard case.
As he finished tidying up and locking tool chests, he added, “He’s been working on it for half the night. Wasn’t there yesterday. I’ll come in and stain it, and the decorator will furnish it so it’s finished while they’re away.”
“Impressive.” I nodded at Brad, the groom, as he hopped off the ladder and headed inside. Less than ten minutes later, he emerged dressed in a navy three-piece suit, his tie hanging open along his collar. Jay and another man followed a few minutes later, and within fifteen, they were ready to get in the cars. I’d been snapping candid photos the whole time, but it was standing at the front door while the trio were about to exit that sent pangs of longing through me.
Jay reached out for Brad’s tie, adjusting it so it was centered. “This is it, bro. You’re marrying my little sis. Nervous?”
“Nah, mate. I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.”
My heart thudded in my chest, hearing the love in his voice. I wanted that, I really did. The thought of coming home to my partner, of holding them at night, taking care of them, of loving them was like a pipe dream. But it was one that’d probably never happen. People tended not to stick around when they found out I just wasn’t interested in sex. I barely even thought about it nowadays. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. When I was in my senior year and in college, I’d had more than one attempt, but it was “meh” at best. I’d watched porn, I’d tried hooking up with a few girls in my senior year and others during college, but there was nothing there. No spark, no energy, no desire. Nothing. Doctors had told me there was nothing wrong and I could take drugs to increase my sex drive if that was what I wanted. I’d held off, trying to look for another option and spent countless hours trawling through the web trying to figure out alternatives. Then I came across a forum for aces, or people identifying as asexual. I knew I’d found my tribe. My worrying over my lack of sex drive was because I was so focused on what everyone else deemed “normal.” Once I realized that I was my own “normal,” I stopped being concerned that there was something wrong with me. As much as I hated putting myself in a box, because I was more than my sexuality, once I knew the right label to apply, I was comfortable in my skin. I wanted romance, I felt attraction, but it just wasn’t sexual. I wanted the feel of arms around me, of a kiss, but I d
idn’t have a thing for sex.
Problem was that most people still had no idea what that meant. They assumed the same thing as me initially—I was impotent—or worse, that I’d been abused as a kid and sex scared me. For the record, I could get it up without a problem—I jacked off occasionally when I needed the endorphin rush—and no, I hadn’t been abused. I was one of those lucky kids who grew up in a stable house with parents who loved them and were understanding and accepting of me. But I was a complete failure at dating. Most didn’t get past the first date if they started to get physical and I didn’t move things along. But the kind of love I could hear in Brad’s voice? I wanted that.
I shook off my musings and followed them out the door, snapping photos of the gorgeous red Chevy Bel Air parked in the drive and of the groom and his friends getting into it.
I saw Trent at the ceremony handing out booklets and ushering people to their seats, and later getting up to read out a poem. His voice was hypnotic. It wasn’t overly deep, but his measured pace had the room riveted, and as he spoke about everlasting love and honor just about every tragic romantic in the room, me included, sighed. I’d loved getting close enough to take photos of him as he spoke, his dark eyes haunting in my lens.
It wasn’t until the reception that I could say thank you to him. With the bride and groom speaking to their friends and family and taking endless selfies, I stayed out of the way, leaning against the mahogany bar. I toyed with the ice cubes in my empty glass as I watched Trent with his date. It didn’t look like they were having a good time. Trent shook his head, and his date went from looking like she was giving him puppy-dog eyes to then hardening her gaze. He didn’t hang around, picking up his glass and turning his back on her. When he made his way in my direction, I moved to meet him in the middle of the bar. “Hey,” I greeted, smiling at him. “Thanks for thinking of me today. I appreciate it.”
