Pictures of You (16 page)

             
“Hi Mary, nice to meet you,” Adrien said, disguising a laugh with a few forced coughs.

             
“Are you sick?” Mary said, throwing him a mocking scowl, threatening to shoot the rubber band at him.

             
“Nope, I’m well, but thanks for asking. Must be allergies.”

             
I stifled a giggle. “And this is Tiger,” I said, gesturing toward our orange-and-white cat balled up next to Mary on the couch. The cat, bored of the whole situation, gracefully jumped down and left the room.

             
“You know ancient Egyptians shaved off their eyebrows to mourn the death of their cats,” Mary said, eyeing Adrien up and down. I threw her a warning glance, knowing that she was already thinking of how she could steal him from me (not that he was really mine). She shrugged at me in reply.

             
“I didn’t know that. Good to know, though.” He nodded politely.

             
“This is our living room,” I said, feeling silly for stating the obvious.

             
“Cool place,” he said, looking around, his gaze resting on our endless collection of board games.

             
“I know,” I said. “We’re kind of nerdy. No one actually plays board games anymore.”

             
“I think it’s kind of cool,” he said. “Battleship? I haven’t played that in years.”

             
“Maybe we’ll have to play it sometime. Let’s have lunch. Do you like macaroni and cheese?” I asked.

             
“I
love
macaroni and cheese.”

             
“Good. I happen to make some serious mac. Four-cheese mac to be precise.” I led Adrien into the kitchen. The kitchen echoed the rest of the trash-to-treasure house, with an ugly vintage refrigerator covered in magnetic poetry, a table painted a metallic turquoise (Abby and I had spent a Saturday morning painting it together) and mismatched bar stools. 

             
Adrien played around with the magnetic poetry as I rummaged through the fridge for various cheeses.             

             
“Do you have a bucket list?” I asked, placing a pan of water on the burner.

             
“A bucket list?” He raised an eyebrow.

             
“You know, like a things-to-do-before-you-croak list. Like your biggest goals. Your dreams.”

             
“Yeah, I guess I do. I mean, I did before…But there’s nowhere near enough time.”

             
“What do you mean there’s not near enough time?” Mary said, still sitting on the couch playing with the rubber band.

             
“Mary, mind your own business.”

             
“Oh wait. Are you like dying or something? Let me guess. Cancer? Did you know cancer is the second leading cause of death? But just barely. Heart disease is only slightly—”

             
“Shut up, Mary,” I said. Then turning to Adrien, “Tell me anyway.” I dumped the macaroni noodles into the boiling water. “We might be able to do one or two before…”

             
Adrien rattled off a long list while I sliced the jack cheese. Some of it was the usual stuff: visit Europe, go sky-diving, swim with dolphins, learn Taekwondo. Some of it not so common: try Ethiopian food, live in a tree house for a year, meet his favorite writers, kiss a girl at the very top of a Ferris wheel. He smiled a little as he said the last one, making me blush. Then, after a moment, he added, “And of course it’s been a longtime dream to have a book published.”

             
When the macaroni was finished, I pulled a bag of salad and a bottle of ranch out of the fridge. “Do you want something to drink?” I asked. “Crap, we’re out of soda. There’s a vending machine in the hall downstairs—”

             
“I’ll grab some,” Adrien said, rummaging through his pockets, pulling out some loose change.

             
“That would be great,” I said, grabbing a couple of heavy ceramic plates.

             
“Be careful Adrien, thirteen people are killed by vending machines every year,” I heard Mary say as he slipped out.

***

              “I haven’t modeled before,” Adrien said, laughing as we climbed several flights to get to the rooftop.

             
“You don’t have to do anything fancy. Just be yourself,” I said, touching his arm. Our eyes locked and I let my hand linger for a moment. The way he looked at me—it was almost penetrating—so I finally had to look away and unfortunately, I let a childish giggle slip. After I composed myself, I pulled my Nikon out of the bag, adjusted the aperture and began shooting immediately.

             
He lifted a hand to shield his face. “Wait, you’re already taking pictures?”

             
“Of course. The candid ones are always the best.”

             
“What do you want me to do?” He bit his lip. I snapped another picture.

             
“Let’s try a few with you sitting here on the ledge.”

             
“Sit how?”

             
“However you like.”

             
Obediently he sat, shifting back and forth until he found a comfortable position. My heart sped up when I saw how dangerously close he was to falling off the fifteen storey building. “Careful,” I said. “You’re not supposed to kill yourself for another two weeks.”

             
“Ha, ha. You’re quite the comedian,” he shot back. He scooted forward a few inches. The muscles in my face relaxed.

             
It was a mild summer evening. Big mashed potato clouds hung in the perfect blue sky. A gentle breeze combed through my hair, caressed my face and tugged gently at my shirt. The weather couldn’t have been more ideal for a photo shoot.

             
I studied every square inch of his face as I snapped hundreds of photos. I have to admit: this was the perfect excuse to stare at him for as long as my heart desired. His eyes. The way they’d reveal such sadness, an aching, haunting sadness one minute, then light up full of sheer joy and child-like wonder the next. His coveted bone structure—his prominent cheekbones and perfectly sculpted jaw. The way his lips curved downward when he was deep in thought, but broke into a huge sloppy grin when I made him laugh. The subtle cleft in his chin. The teeny, tiny scar just below his left ear. His messy chestnut hair. His hands. I couldn’t get enough of those hands.

             
“You have a little cheese in the corner of your mouth,” I said, flat-out lying. He used his right hand to brush the side of his mouth and I took several shots.

             
“When’s your next show?” he asked, resting his elbows on his knees.

             
“I have one this Wednesday,” I said. “Actually it’s my first solo exhibit. But don’t be too impressed. I have connections. My aunt’s best friend owns the gallery.”

             
“That’s cool. This Wednesday? Where?”

             
“Red Street Gallery. At seven. You’re more than welcome to come. If I can get these printed and framed fast enough, I’ll probably use a couple of them,” I said, pausing to admire my last shot on the camera’s screen.

             
“I’d love to come,” he said, watching me so intently, it made my stomach do a couple of flips. “So, how long have you been taking pictures?”

             
“Since I was eight. My parents bought me a cheesy princess one for Christmas. It was bright pink.”

             
“I’m trying to picture you as a little girl.” He smiled a smile that lit up his whole face.

             
“I still have that camera. I have this quirk—I can’t get rid of any of my cameras. They’re like my babies. I just get so attached. You’d think I’d given birth to the little beasts.”

             
He laughed, clearly amused. “How many of them do you have?”

             
“I think I have thirteen now.”

             
“Thirteen cameras? Wow. I get it, though. I feel equally passionate about writing. I have these notebooks. A whole box of them. I can’t bring myself to throw any of them away. Although maybe I should. Some of my older stuff is terrible.”

             
“What do you put in them? Poems?”

             
“Yeah, poems. Thoughts, ideas. Ideas for books, for characters and plots. Doodles.”

             
“Do you think I could read one of your stories?”

             
His eyebrows rose. He pursed his lips. “Sure. Someday.”

             
Someday? What did that mean? For Adrien, there wasn’t going to be a someday.

             
As the sun melted into the cityscape, it painted the sky a brilliant orange-pink. “It’s beautiful,” I said, taking a few photos of the surreal backdrop.

             
As Adrien turned to me, the remaining rays of sun cast a warm glow on his perfect face, making him look angelic. I moved the camera upward and took several shots as he studied my face.

             
“
You’re
beautiful,” he whispered, brushing a gentle hand through my hair, his thumb tracing the contours of my face. As he did this, his eyes pierced mine, digging deep, deep, deep into my soul, making me quiver. I sucked in a sharp breath when he placed his hand around mine and gently pulled the camera away from my grip. He took a step toward me, nearly closing the gap between us and turned, throwing his arm around my waist, his hand brushing my hip. Turning the lens on the two of us, he pressed the shutter button, immortalizing our brief moment together in this mortal experience, this thing we call life.

16

“You’re late, Missy,” Chris said in an animatedly stern voice, waving a finger at me.

I busted out laughing. Chris acting stern—well let’s just say it doesn’t work.

              “I know. I’m sorry,” I said, grabbing a mop, dunking it into the soapy water.

“It’s so unlike
you. You’re never late,” he said, pulling his hair back with a rubber band.

“It’s true. I’m
never
late.” I couldn’t hide the goofy smile on my face.

             
“Ahhh…You were with that guy, weren’t you? What’s his name? Julian? Aidan?”

             
“Adrien. And yes, we spent the day together.” And it was a near-perfect day, I added mentally. Probably the best since Abby died.

             
“Sounds like you’re getting serious. What did you do today?”

             
“We ran some errands and then we had lunch at my place. I made my mean four-cheese mac—”

             
“Not the famous mac. You must really like this guy.”

             
I bit my lip. “I think I do like him. He’s really great. He wanted to see my work. He loved it. He couldn’t stop raving. And then he agreed to model for me, so we did a shoot. On the roof of my apartment, actually. We sort of lost track of time.”

             
“He modeled for you? Oh yeah, I remember. He’s super hot. Ughhhh.” Chris stopped wiping down a wall to make a face.

             
“Oh, come on. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you’ve been acting jealous lately,” I stopped mid-mop to watch for his reaction.

             
“I’m not jealous. No way.” Chris rolled his eyes and threw his dirty rag at me, hitting me in the face.

             
“Hey, not cool.” I began swinging my wet mop at him, splattering soapy water everywhere when my phone rang. “Hello?”

             
“Tem-Tem?” It was my sister April. She was the only one who called me that.

             
“Hey April, what’s up?” Knots began forming in the back of my neck like they did every time we spoke. My sister and I had the classic love-hate relationship. If anyone knew how to push my buttons, it was April.

             
“I was just calling to ask you to bring a dish to Mom and Dad’s party. Oh, bring your spinach quiche. You make the best spinach quiche. In fact, I was just telling John that.”