The ceremony passes with nothing monumental occurring. When it ends, I walk into a room where we get our actual diploma. The second it is in my hands, elation courses through me. This small rectangle of paper is my ticket back to Cora. My ticket home.
Although we haven’t spoken in close to two years, I hope she will forgive me. When I stopped answering her letters, calls and texts, my intention was to do what was best for her, since I had no way to see her. To let her go.
But after that letter and those drawings she sent me, I am nervous as hell about how she will react to seeing me again. I went about things a shitty way, but what else was I supposed to do? We were in a fucked-up situation and I thought what I was doing would mend it all somehow.
But I was wrong. Dead wrong.
I walk out of the back and go in search of my parents. They stand outside, waiting for me with giant smiles plastered on their faces. After a handful of photos are taken, we head to the car and drive to a restaurant for my graduation dinner. In the car, they reminisce over the ceremony and how nice it was. I stare out the window and pray it won’t be much longer before I don’t see this skyline again.
Once we order food and my parents express their unwavering excitement, I mentally prepare to ask the question I have been waiting to ask for the past two years. Asking is going to burst the joy bubble they are trapped in, but I don’t care. My bubble hasn’t held joy since I was forced to leave Florida and step foot in this state.
“Mom? Dad? Can we talk about me moving back to Florida?” Straight forward and to the point. No need to beat around the bush. A man on a mission.
Mom tips her head to the side as a frown takes residence on her lips. Dad doesn’t move, his expression stoic. Their lack of communication says more than any words ever will. The silence tells me the trip I have longed to make won’t be happening. But I refuse to believe it until I hear the actual words. Until they tell me I cannot go.
“Gavin—” Mom starts, but pauses to look at Dad for silent support “—I would love nothing more than for you to be where you want to be. But things have been really tight for us financially. And right now, we just don’t have the money to fly you to Florida.”
I fucking knew this would happen. Knew it. As soon as we got here, I should have gone to every store and restaurant and applied for a job. Bagboy, stocker, cashier, busboy. Anything. If I had, maybe I would have more than enough money by now to leave. But I was so wrapped up in throwing a pity party for myself, I didn’t do shit.
Fuck my life.
“So there’s nothing we can do? Didn’t you have some college fund for me? If so, cash it in. I have zero plans to go to college, especially here.”
“Son, I wish it were that simple,” Dad chimes in. “We did have a college fund for you, but we had to cash it in shortly after we moved here. Things have been a little tougher than we suspected. I’m sorry.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me. Not only can I not go back to Florida, but college isn’t even an option. I may not have wanted to attend college, but they banked on my not mentioning it. Score one for the parentals. Zero for the child. Fucking bullshit.
“Wow. I don’t know how to respond to any of this. You both knew my plans after graduation. How could you not say anything to me? You could’ve suggested I go out and get a job. If only for three or four months. At least I’d have money to fly home.”
“This is home, Gavin,” Mom says.
“This has never been home, Mom. You know it just as much as I do,” I snap.
“Don’t speak that way to your mother,” Dad states, his voice sharp and stern. “We have had to make tough decisions for our family and I wouldn’t change a single one. You may not have liked our choices. You may not like your life here. But you will respect us.”
Wow. Just wow. So does respect only go one way? The parents deserve it, but their children don’t? What sort of asinine bullshit is that? Yes, I was underage when we moved and didn’t have a say in the matter. I accept it. But to purposely hide this… I am done.
“Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad,” I seethe. “I respect you. This just fucking sucks! And I can’t help but wonder why neither of you said a damn word to me sooner. Oh, I know,” I say, holding up a finger and firmly pressing my lips together. “Because you knew this would be my reaction, that’s why. Fucking bullshit.”
“Watch your mouth, Gavin,” Dad snaps.
I shake my head. “It’s a little late for that, Dad. You forget, I’m an adult. Like you never swore when you were younger.”
Mom and Dad go silent on the opposite side of the table, shutting down the conversation. Our server delivers the food a minute later, but I don’t eat a bite. Instead, I open up the photos on my phone and scroll through the folder marked “C+G.” With each swipe, my throat swells and the back of my eyes sting.
Fuck.
There is one singular thing I have wanted for the last two years. One thing that provided purpose and gave me hope. To go home to Cora. To see her beautiful face cupped between my hands again. Listen to her laughter as I tickle her in that spot under her ribs only I know about. Wrap my arms around her waist and draw her close to my body as we lay on the couch and watch Lord of the Rings for the hundredth time.
But now it seems that won’t be happening. Not unless I figure out how to get there on my own. And it looks as though that is my only option. But I will make it happen.
My fourth job interview ends like the previous three. With a “we’ll get back to you soon.” Which equals we have no intention of hiring you. Why is it so fucking hard to get a job? Working retail isn’t rocket science.
I walk out of the preppy clothing store with my head hung low. Where the hell will I get a job? At this point, I am not above selling shit on the streets to get the money I need. Whatever it takes to get me back to Cora. And although I haven’t spoken with her in far too long, in my mind’s eye, I picture her face lighting up the moment we reconnect. As if we scoured the earth to find each other and succeeded.
There is one more interview on my list today. One more opportunity. And I hope like hell it won’t end like the last four. This interview is a long shot, but I have to try. At this point, what do I have to lose?
Two hours later, I walk through the front door of Elite Models. My stomach twists in a knot and a bead of sweat rolls down the back of my neck. When I approach the reception desk, a woman ten years my senior gawks at me head to toe. Her perusal isn’t distasteful, but makes me want to curl inward.
“Can I help you?”
I step closer to the counter. “Yes. I have an interview with Sharon and Gus.”
The woman peels her eyes away from me and scans her computer screen. A few scrolls and clicks later, she locates whatever she had been looking for and smiles. Her fingers tap the keyboard before she picks up the phone and dials.
“Your next candidate is here,” she says. Her eyes pop back to my body and visually rip away my clothes. The act is a total violation and I wonder if this is what girls feel like when men ogle them in public. If so, it is awful and makes me want to cover myself with my arms.
She sets the handset back down, but keeps her eyes trained on me. I want to look away, escape the unease of her gaze, but choose not to. Because who knows how she will visually obsess over me when I turn away.
God, this is awkward.
A set of smoky glass doors open and a man walks out. He could be Dad’s age, maybe older, but is layered in makeup and trendy clothes that shave years off his appearance. His hair is styled like a magazine ad—not a single strand out of place. For a moment, inferiority swamps me. I can’t do this. But I have to do this. Every other option has been tossed away.
“Gavin Hunt?” the trendy man asks and I nod. “Hello, Gavin. Gus.” He extends a hand and I shake it. “It’s nice to meet you. If you’ll follow me, we’ll get started.”
I follow him through the smoky doors. With each step, I ask myself if doing this is the right thing. If getting sucked into
the limelight is how I get back to Cora. The hall we walk down is littered with countless photos. Women, men, people my age, people my parents’ age. The images range from luxurious to hobo and everything in between. Each face is beautifully sculpted and emotionally connecting with the onlooker.
How the hell do they do that? How the hell would I do that?
There is no way I can do this.
Two hours later, I shake Sharon and Gus’s hands. They don’t throw me the infamous line I have heard at every other interview. Instead, they tell me what time to return on Monday. Relief courses through my veins.
Finally, an opportunity.
Not only did I land a job. I landed the opportunity of a lifetime. Modeling will not only flood my pockets, it will have me back in Cora’s arms sooner than expected. Today ends on a high note and I wish I could share the news with the one person who matters.
Soon. After I get a couple photo shoots under my belt, I will call Cora and let her know the good news. That I will return home.
Why is this shit so goddamn difficult?
Every photo I have studied makes modeling seem effortless. Smiles and smirks and deadpan expressions. All in my repertoire. Stand in front of the camera, plaster your face with whatever emotion the photographer seeks and pose. Boom. Photo acquired.
Wrong.
After several failed attempts to appear smoldering, I am asked to put my shirt back on and report to Karen on the third floor. What the fuck is smoldering anyway? If I didn’t fear the repercussions of having my phone out, I would search the term online.
Instead, now I sit in a room with five other people. Our chairs in a small circle facing each other. Feels like I am at a group therapy session. My knee bounces and I gnaw on my thumbnail.
A fifty-something woman glides into the room. Yes, glides. For a moment, I wonder if she wears special shoes under her floor-length, flowy dress. She owns the room in one breath. Everyone in the circle equally mesmerized by her appearance. Her finesse. Her ability to instantly garner everyone’s attention.
“Good afternoon. I’m Karen, your modeling coach.”
Modeling coach? Damnit. Obviously, my modeling skills were zero on a scale of a million. Because this sounds like school. And school hasn’t been something I excelled in since moving.
The girl beside me leans in close. “Is it just me? Does this lady make you feel as inadequate as she does me?”
I lean an inch away and glance at her a moment. “Uh, I guess.” I shrug. Inadequate wasn’t quite the word I would choose. Maybe intimidated.
The girl smiles big at me. Her smile makes me more uncomfortable than Karen’s entrance and presence. Not able to pinpoint my discomfort, I opt for niceties and extend my hand to her.
“Hi, I’m Gavin.”
She stares at my hand a moment, a few emotions flit across her face but don’t linger. Then she takes my hand and shakes it. “Layla.” Her eyes ping to mine and she keeps our hands connected. I want to yank it back. Her touch scalds my skin. Not in the way Cora’s touch heats every molecule inside me. Rather, Layla’s skin on mine is invasive. Parasitic. Wrong.
When she doesn’t remove her hand from mine after an uncomfortable five breaths, I slip mine away. The second she looks away from me, I wipe my hand on my jeans. Something about this girl makes me uneasy. The only person I read easily was Cora. So, it confounds me to not figure out why this girl makes me uneasy.
Maybe she is just as upset about being in this class as I am. Maybe she is only trying to be friendly.
I lean back in my chair and listen to Karen prattle on about why we are all here. Honestly, if this class makes me better at modeling, I am all for it. It gets me one more step closer to Cora. The main reason I’m doing this in the first place.
For her. For us. And our future.
Hours later, the class ends. All of us numb from the lessons on facial expressions and how to achieve them. According to Karen, we will be seeing her five days a week for the foreseeable future. Once she determines we are worthy of “graduating,” she will pass such information to the appropriate people.
In other words, it may be weeks or months before I model. Weeks or months before I take a decent photo. Weeks or months before I earn a penny.
On the upside, the modeling agency pays for the classes. Only because we are “assets.” Calling me an asset is objectifying, but I suck it up. Modeling is just temporary. A stepping stone to get me where I need to be.
As I leave for the day, Layla stops me. “Hey, Gavin. You want to grab something to eat? I could eat a cow after today.” She laughs and it sounds forced. Awkward. Exaggerated.
All I want is to go home and crash. But it would be nice to know someone else in this boat. Someone I can talk to when I have a rough day. A friend. “Yeah, sure.”
The moment I agree, a rock plummets in my gut. It sinks and settles deep. Nausea threatens and I shove it down. Layla is a nice person—at least that is what I continually tell myself. Our relationship will only consist of friendship. Nothing more.
No one will ever take Cora’s place. No one.
Sixteen
Gavin
Present
The server walks away and I wonder what the hell I just ordered. Some mock version of pulled “pork.” Except this place serves no meat. Cora assures me it was a good choice, but I will be the judge.
Cora picks up her water and sips it while staring out the window. Her fingers twist and roll the paper straw while her eyes narrow slightly then go back to their normal shape. Occasionally, she bites the inside of her cheek. Beneath the table, her leg bounces and ghosts against mine every other breath.
Does she feel it each time her skin grazes mine? She is so lost in her thoughts, I doubt it. But I do. Every. Single. Time.
“Cora.”
Her eyes dart from the window to mine as she snaps out of her fog. “Huh?”
“Why are you so nervous?”
She rolls her eyes and it is fucking adorable. “Don’t be silly, Gavin. I’m not nervous.” Her leg bounces faster.
I tilt my head and study her a minute. “You know you can’t fool me. So why try?”
Cora huffs and sets her water down. A second later, she tucks her hands under her thighs. We sit in silence a moment, staring at each other. Holding her gaze has never been uncomfortable, whether for five seconds or five minutes.
And then I remember the reason why we are sitting together right now. The reason she’s giving me a chance. Because she is waiting to hear my truth. A truth I swore to tell her. That I plan to tell her. I only hope she listens. Truly listens and digests what I say.
“I’m sorry,” I say. An apology is the best place to start. Unfortunately, I have far too much to apologize for.
Her leg finally stops bouncing. “Sorry? And what exactly are you sorry for?” Her question slaps me in the face. A slap I more than deserve. A slap I will take like a man.
I reach under the table and rest a hand on her knee. The simple and innocent touch soothes my nervousness and helps me focus. “Where do I begin?” I pause a moment to gather my thoughts. She needs to know everything, but I don’t want to bounce from one end to the other and back again.
My question was meant to be rhetorical, but she answers. “How about the beginning. I find that to always be the best place.”
Cora’s snappy demeanor has me on the cusp of smiling. On the verge of teasing and light sarcasm. But the last thing I need is to piss her off more, so I resist the urge and trudge forward.
“I’m sorry I stopped answering your calls and texts. Sorry I didn’t return a single one of them. My parents had thrown every hope I had of getting back to you out the window. So, I thought I was doing the right thing by letting you go. By giving you a chance to move on without me. To have a life and smile and maybe find love again.”
A glutton for punishment, I refuse to look away from her. Refuse to not see every emotion she feels as my words set in. As I share the reason why I abandoned her year
s ago. Even as her eyes brim red and well in the corners. Even as her brow furrows and lips purse. She breaks eye contact and shifts her gaze to the street, not looking at anything specific. She just has difficulty looking at me. A tear rolls down her cheek and she swipes it away with the back of her hand. Her chin quivers as she clamps her lips between her teeth.
I walked into this knowing sour memories would be rehashed. That me spilling my truth, telling her where my head was at, would be hard to hear. But fuck, it hurts to watch her break down in front of me. To see her fighting off emotions as we sit in public and talk about the most painful parts of our past.
After a minute, I give her knee a squeeze. Her soft green bloodshot eyes come back to mine and the emotion in them is raw. It claws at my heart and shreds it in a million pieces. As painful as this is, I did this to her. And I deserve every gut-wrenching second of the pain I feel. Her pain.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she croaks out. “Why didn’t you call or text or write and tell me what was happening? We shared everything with each other. Everything.” She shakes her head. “But you up and decided to make this monumental decision without me.” She sucks in a breath and speaks on the exhale. “Gavin, I shut down. Detached from the world and crawled into a hole. All I wanted was to talk with you. My best friend. My everything. And you shut me out.”
A fist wraps around my heart and constricts the organ like a squeaky toy. Over and over and over.
How could I have been such a dick? How could I have been so selfish? Everything I did was in the hopes of Cora not being in pain. At least that’s what I kept telling myself. I thought letting her go was the best option. What other option was there? I had no way to get to her, and my parents did nothing to help. So, in my eyes, letting her live life without restriction seemed like the better option. I didn’t want her to feel obligated—to me or the possibility of me.
Obviously, I am a fucking idiot.
“No matter what I say, it’ll never make up for what I did. But I’d like to try now. Try to fix what I’ve done. Will you let me try? Please.”
Time Exposure (Click Duet #2) (Bay Area Duet Series) Page 11
