by Lori L. Otto
“Do I have a chance?” he asks earnestly. I shrug once more as I bite my lip to hide the smile. “What’s that look mean?” he asks.
“I don’t know–”
“Tell me where I stand right now.”
“No,” I say shyly. His voice is so sexy, and his mannerisms are... wow.
“I like nice girls,” he says. “I like girls who know what they want, and won’t settle for less. I like creativity and individuality. I love a beautiful smile,” he says as his finger touches my lip. “I like a girl who’s spirited and determined. I like someone who’s smart and curious. Do you live up to any of those things?”
By his definition, I’d say I’m pretty close to what he’s looking for. He drags his thumb down my bare arm. It feels nice, but it’s confusing to me, too. I feel something in me–desire, I think–and it seems too soon.
“I think you do,” he suggests, answering for me. “Now that you know how you affect me, tell me how I affect you.” He stares at me, waiting, and eventually moves his fingers back up to my face, brushing them against my cheek. I’m sure he’s noticed my hard blushing. I like the way it feels when he touches me like that. So slow, and soft, and sensual. My pulse quickens, and I feel it everywhere.
“It’s unexpected,” I answer him honestly. I dip my head and close my eyes, imagining it’s Jon’s hand that’s moving to the back of my neck; imagining that it’s Jon that’s pulling me toward him; imagining that it’s Jon’s mouth– “No,” I tell him, pushing him away at the feel of his lips touching the corner of mine.
He looks around the crowd, as if he’s checking to see if anyone saw the rejection. He kicks at something on the ground before looking back up at me. “Too fast?” he asks.
“You said you like nice girls.”
“Some nice girls kiss on the first date.”
“Not me,” I tell him.
“I know. This is our second, though,” he explains endearingly.
“It’s too fast for me,” I tell him, hoping it’s a good enough reason without having to tell him why. “Plus, this isn’t a date.”
“Again, do I have any chance with you, Livvy?” he asks.
“Of course you do,” I tell him. “I think you’re very attractive... and creative... and a little mysterious, and dangerous.”
“Dangerous?”
“Dangerous,” I confirm. Dangerous because I can see myself letting go with him, even though I barely know him and definitely don’t love him. “You make me feel sexy,” I tell him softly. “You make me want things I shouldn’t want.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
“Why shouldn’t you want to feel sexy? Why wouldn’t you want to be with someone who makes you want things? You’re an adult. Sexuality is part of who we are.”
“It’s just too fast,” I reiterate. “I want those things. But I want it to mean something, too.”
He looks at me skeptically. “So, from what I’m hearing, I turn you on. You’re attracted to me. You think I’m dangerous, but wait–”
“What?”
“Didn’t you say the other night you weren’t afraid of me?” he asks.
I nod slowly, feeling his hand on my waist. I instinctively put mine on top of his, but I can’t tell if my instincts are to move it or keep it there. I keep it there. “That was before you...” I look away from him again.
“Before I got you hot and bothered,” he says with a satisfied laugh. My cheeks get hot again as I look away. He tips my head back to his, though, looking intensely into my eyes. “But it sounds like I have a chance with you.”
“You do,” I whisper. A part of me wants him to try to kiss me again, but I hear the other part screaming against that notion.
I see Katrina’s pink hair moving toward us. Finally, I move his hand from my body, signaling to him that we’re not alone.
“We’re not interrupting, are we?” my roommate says.
“Not at all,” I tell her, even though they are. I don’t know if I should be annoyed or grateful.
“Aren’t you happy we got her to stay on campus this weekend?” Rachelle asks Emmanuel.
“It’s a nice surprise,” he answers her. “Was there a trade-off?”
“We’re spending next Saturday in Manhattan, at Livvy’s loft.”
“You should come!” Katrina says excitedly. “I mean... maybe–” she stops herself after she caught her mistake too late.
“I’d love to,” Emmanuel answers, not letting her take it back. “I have friends in Manhattan. Maybe we could all go out.”
“I’m kind of having a party for my birthday.”
“Oh, well. If you want me to stop by...”
“Sure,” I say, wanting to be polite–but also wanting to kill Katrina for opening her big mouth. I don’t want to un-invite him, but the thought of him in Manhattan–in the loft–makes me sick to my stomach. I want to get to know him better, but not there. No matter how different the place looks, it’s special because of the time I spent there with Jon. He’d recreated a Mykonos scene, and we had made love there, and spent the entire night and morning together. No matter how much anger I feel toward him, I still cherish that time, and wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.
“Great,” Emmanuel says. “You can give me your address in class on Tuesday.”
“Cool,” I agree.
“Ready to go to the after-party?” Rachelle asks me.
“Just tell me where to go,” I say with forced enthusiasm. “Are you going?” I ask him.
“I’ve got an early shoot in the morning,” he says. “Gotta catch the sunrise.”
“Okay, well, it was nice to see you here.”
He nods his head in agreement, putting his hand on my shoulder. He leans in and kisses my cheek. “It’s okay to want things,” he whispers.
The rest of the night, without Emmanuel and without alcohol, I find myself on a swing in the front yard of the house we’d gone to, alone with my thoughts and a phone that never rings.
CHAPTER 6
“I have to wonder if you might be behind the class pairings,” I admit to Emmanuel on Tuesday as we walk around the campus.
“It’s not my fault we have an uneven number of students,” he explains, pointing across the street to guide me. “Someone had to get stuck with the TA. Why not you?”
We’re looking for an everyday, ordinary object to photograph. It’s a lesson in framing and perspective, and the assignment is to make it look anything but ordinary. We have the entire class–an hour and a half–to take the picture. Of course Emmanuel doesn’t have to participate, so he’s helping me find my object and being a general distraction. He did bring his camera, too, but he’s just been shooting candids of me.
“I don’t think I understand the lesson,” I tell him. “I just find something normal and shoot it at an angle that’s not, like, straight-on?”
“You could... but remember, it’s about looking at the whole picture. You can’t digitally crop anything out, so you have to consider everything you see in the viewfinder. That means you can set things up to make the final product more visually stimulating.”
“It doesn’t have to be one object, though, right?”
“Right.” He holds the door for me as we go into an independent bookstore. The smell inside reminds me of the public library. I inhale deeply, missing those afternoons.
“Do you read much?” I ask him.
“Not really. Magazines every once in awhile, but not books. Nothing holds my interest that long. I think I’m too visual for books.”
“That’s impossible,” I argue. “You can’t be too visual for books. It’s not what your eyes see, it’s what your mind conjures up. I have more vivid images dreamed up by my imagination than anything I can see with my own two eyes.”
“Then you’re not looking hard enough.”
I roll my eyes at his response. “I don’t think you’re trying hard enough. You just see beauty and capture it on film? Is that all you do?�
� I wait for his response, finally looking up at him when he doesn’t answer. A soft flash startles me as he snaps another picture. “Oh, my god, please stop.”
“Model for me then. In private.”
“No,” I laugh.
“Then indulge me, please.” I keep walking, looking for something that inspires me. “And yeah, it’s kind of my thing, to see beauty and capture it. I see the world a little differently.”
“I think I do, too,” I tell him.
“I think you interpret the world differently. That’s not the same. I think you see things at face value, but then your mind processes the ordinary and makes it something extraordinary. That’s why your artwork is so successful. You can take everyday emotions and spin that into a visual representation that you challenge others to interpret. Your work is very smart. But you don’t just make people think, you make them feel something.”
“Thanks. That’s quite a compliment.” I pull an old book off of a shelf, noticing its discolored spine. Dostoevsky. The pages are stiff and brittle. “Didn’t Dostoevsky write The Brothers Karamazov?”
Emmanuel takes the book from me and sets it back on the shelf. “Were you speaking English just now?”
“Yes,” I laugh, reaching for the book again. He puts his hand on mine.
“When Professor Murphy said to find something ordinary, she didn’t mean ugly.”
“This is not ugly,” I correct him, gripping the novel once more. “It’s just old.” I turn to the title page to see the date it was published. First edition. 1922. And it’s signed. “Really old.”
“Well, we could do something interesting with the lighting and the pages. Maybe curl them–”
“Are you kidding? No. We’re not doing anything with these pages. In fact, we’re not photographing it at all, but I might buy this.”
“We have thirty minutes left,” he says.
“Hold this. I’m going to find something in here.” I hand him the book and start wandering toward the back where they have writing instruments and stationary supplies. An old, rusty pencil sharpener catches my eye. I pick it up and start walking toward a small reading area that has an antique side table with a Tiffany lamp. The light produces a soft, cool glow. “Do you think I should use a macro lens?” I ask him.
“Frame it,” he says, walking toward me as he carefully thumbs through the book. “Look through your viewfinder. If that’s not the picture you want, you can try another lens.”
“Is this everyday enough?”
“I like it,” he says. “It’s gritty and vintage. Are you going to shoot in color or black and white?”
“I think black and white would be too obvious. Oh, you know what might be cool?” I ask him.
“What?”
“Can you hold the lamp up? What if I lit it through the colored glass? That might give it a little more personality.”
“Now you’re thinking,” he says as he sets the book down on a nearby bench. He picks up the lamp, standing in between it and the only salesperson in the store. She may not like us handling her antique this way. After trying it with my standard lens, I switch to my macro.
“This is cool,” I tell him, noticing how the warm reds pop off the worn metal.
“Balance the camera on the chair arm,” he suggests. “With the lighting in here, you won’t be able to hold it steady on your own.”
“I have a pretty steady hand,” I tell him. As a painter, I have to. I tuck my arms as he’d taught me and snap a few pictures. The third one is perfect. I zoom in to make sure it’s in focus, reading the etched brand name and noting all the scratches around it. “I’m done.”
“You don’t want to let me be the judge?”
“I can see beauty, too.”
“I’m sure you can,” he concedes as he picks up the book again. “Hey, you sure you want to buy this? It’s three-hundred dollars.”
“It’s priceless,” I correct him. Jon would cherish it. Jon would see its beauty, even if he can no longer see mine. The fact that I can’t deny myself this purchase reminds me of the hope I have... through the anger and frustration I have for Jon, hope underlies it all. “And yes.”
After I pay, I put my camera away and follow Emmanuel out of the store. My phone starts to vibrate in my backpack, and I struggle to get it out in time. “Dad?”
“What did you buy?” he asks.
“Huh?” I stop walking, touching Emmanuel on the arm to stop him, too.
“Three-hundred-eighteen dollars, Livvy. What did you buy?”
“How do you know that?”
“I get alerts.”
“You never cared before,” I tell him.
“You never owed me money before, either,” he explains. “You can’t go around spending money like that when you have bills to pay for the loft.”
“Daddy, it’s a first edition book. It’s special.”
“What book?”
“Some Dostoevsky thing,” I tell him.
“How special can it be when you just called it a thing?” He sounds annoyed.
“Dad, it’s a gift for someone.” I won’t tell him who, not here, and not now.
“Tessa, if it’s for Jon–”
“No, it’s not,” I lie. “I don’t want to get into the details, I just had to have it, okay?”
“If you can afford it,” he says.
“I can, Dad. I have savings, remember?”
“And you can’t blow through it in a year, remember?” he counters.
“I know this.” I sigh into the phone. “Are you really going to monitor all of my spending now?” I whisper, a little embarrassed.
“I sure am,” he says. “Someone’s got to teach you how to maintain a budget. That’s one thing I know we didn’t do well when you were living at home.”
“Fine, Daddy. I have to go, I’m kind of in class–”
“You’re shopping,” he corrects me.
“Yes, but I’m on a photo assignment. I swear. Emmanuel’s right here–”
“Hi, Mr. Holland!” Emmanuel says as he comes closer to the phone.
“Tell him hello.”
“I will. Can I call you later?”
“Sure thing, Contessa. Have a good afternoon. I love you.”
“Love you, too.”
“You have a billionaire father and he’s nagging you for three-hundred dollars?”
“He is,” I tell him as I put my phone away again. We cross the street together, and he takes my hand in his.
“What if someone in our class sees us?” I ask him.
“Girls will be jealous of you. Guys will be jealous of me. It all equals out.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do, but I also don’t care. You sure as hell shouldn’t. You won’t get in trouble.”
“Will you?”
“We’re just holding hands,” he says. “If I convince you to make out with me in class, then we might have a problem.”
“Oh, okay.” We walk back into the art building and head down the hall toward the class. As we get closer, he lets go of my hand. He’s not as brazen as I thought he was.
He opens the door for me and asks me a question as I walk inside the auditorium. “Who’s the book for?” When I look at him, I can tell he suspects it’s for a guy.
“Just an old friend,” I lie.
“Must be a good friend,” he says softly as he follows me to my seat.
“She is.”
I simply have to check in with our professor before she dismisses me for the day, reminding me of the editing restrictions before I leave the room. I tell Emmanuel goodbye on the way out.
“You’re forgetting something,” he says. “Where is this party on Saturday?”
“Oh, right.” Before I can even reach for a pen, he pushes a piece of notebook paper and a pencil toward me. I don’t even know the exact address, so I just write down the cross streets, letting him know it’s the second building on the southeast corner. “Francisco’s the door man. Just tell him you
’re there to see me.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
I smile nervously. “Me, too.”
I’m surprised to find my dorm room empty that afternoon. Katrina had a journalism class, and I thought Rachelle would beat me back after photography. She’s left a note on my desk, reminding me that she was going out to dinner with her parents for her mother’s birthday.
Packing up my brushes and changing clothes, I decide to spend the evening painting. I stop by the dining hall first to have some dinner, choosing a small table and sitting with my back to the rest of the room. I pull out the book I’d bought for Jon and inspect it closely. It’s in remarkably good condition, and although it was an amazing find, I wonder again why I bought it. He doesn’t deserve it... not as a gift from me, anyway. I shouldn’t have bought it.
This can’t be over. It simply can’t be. I get choked up quickly, losing the desire to eat as I read over a few passages. He loves Dostoevsky. He would love this book, but I can’t buy back his love. Why do I want it, anyway?
Could I just give this to him, as a friend? I have to. He should have it. I have to tell myself over and over again to stop wanting anything in return. I shouldn’t give him this book until I know that I won’t.
At the empty studio, I leave the overhead fluorescents off, opting for my desk lamp to provide the lighting for work tonight. I remove the yellow smock from its hanger and put it on carefully, ceremoniously. I never thought an article of clothing would mean more to me than the smock-dress I used to paint in, but I cherish this gift from Jon. I’d gotten a ton of compliments on it, too, with many of my new friends asking where I’d gotten it. From a friend. Just a friend.
I blend the colors carefully, but quickly, anxious to put my brush on the canvas. The strokes today are haphazard and uncontrolled, mimicking my emotions. What am I doing with Emmanuel? Why does he make me feel that way? Is he just different, and exciting to me because of that? Or is there something there? If ever I thought of myself with a “type,” he certainly doesn’t fit the mold. But what’s my type? Jon? Can one man embody everything that I want in a boyfriend? Or rather, can only one man embody everything that I want? Is it fair to look for Jon’s traits in Emmanuel? Is it fair to be disappointed that they’re not there?
