Ten Thousand Words (22 page)

“I know,” I replied, giving him a good, long hug. “It just ended up being a fling. Nothing wrong with that.”

Ronen shrewdly looked at me, but for once, he kept his mouth shut
.

Ever since I had gone to the cemetery, life had decided to stand still. Nothing moved me. I couldn’t hear the stories in my head or find the words to generate a creative spark. It was as though I had left my mojo with the bouquets on Mom and Grandma’s gravestones. I had asked for help to be strong, not realizing that meant shutting down some essential parts of me in the process.

Donovan no longer whispered sweet nothings in my ear. He was silent. Somewhere inside me, I was crushed, numb.

At Heathrow, my father stood, waiting for me, outside of baggage claim. Spotting me, he gave me his lopsided bushy grin and opened his arms. I threw myself into them, needing the shoulder to cry on from the only man who never let me down.

“Shh,” he soothed, rubbing my back. “It’s his loss, honey.”

It was my loss, too, but I didn’t tell him that.

“I spoke with Ellen,” he told me as we walked to his car. “She told me to tell you to take as long as you need. Jaime’s been helping her.”

“I know. But I think a week will do me wonders. I just want to sleep and hang with my pops.”

He smiled. “Sounds good. I’ve got a lot of free time this semester. I only have to work on Wednesday and Friday.”

“Cool.”

The ninety-minute car ride to Oxfordshire was filled with my father telling me about his recent trip to Xinjiang, China, and his studies regarding the Tarim mummies. I loved listening to his stories and theories. It lulled the ache in my chest, and for a while, I forgot to be depressed. He even had me laughing. Dry British humor was the best.

When we pulled into the driveway to the house where I had spent the last part of my childhood growing up, I knew I had made the right decision. Nothing could make me heal faster than the unconditional love of my dad.

“I got your room ready,” Dad said as he carried my suitcase. “And the washer is waiting for your dirties.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Hey, that’s what your old man is for, right?”

“Right.”

Ollie

Monday morning, I drove to the airport with a bouquet of black tulips. They were Lindsey Sparks’s favorite; therefore, I had a feeling that they were Xanthe’s favorite, too. Our original flight was scheduled to arrive at nine fifteen. I was parked in the garage by eight forty-five.

I hated that I wasn’t with her. I should have been by her side this whole time. When I had left a week ago for New York, I’d thought I loved my life, thought I was happy. It took meeting Xanthe to realize that feeling had been superficial.

I stood as close to baggage claim as security allowed. The flight had arrived on time, so it was only a matter of Xanthe making it through customs and collecting her luggage. People began milling past, and my heart crawled into my throat.

I was ready to do whatever it would take. If I could just get her to hear me, tell her how I was a fool, how I had missed her…but I kept reminding myself that I hadn’t listened to her. By the time I had heard her, it had been too late.

When the trail of people trickled into nothing, I sank into a deep pit of misery.

Xanthe wasn’t here. She hadn’t come back.

Will she ever?
The thought swooped down into my gut, making me ill.

It just couldn’t be the end. It had hardly begun!

Back in the car, tulips fisted in my death grip, I simply tried to breathe. The air just wasn’t enough. Pain, fear, and anger with myself kept punching their way through me until I was screaming and beating the bouquet against the dash and the steering wheel, exploding deep purple petals all over the fucking car.

“I felt it, too.”

“Fuck! No! This can’t…”

But it was. I had held my dreams in my arms, had made love to her, had spent hours listening to her and watching her, and I’d tossed it aside in a fit of rage.

Xanthe was just a human being, one woman who had suffered.

In a haze of despair, I went home. I didn’t have any work scheduled for the day, but I did have a doctor’s appointment for an STD screening later on in the afternoon. I’d promised Xanthe I’d make sure I was clean.

I might not have any work, but I did have photos.

Dropping my keys on the hook next to the door, I raced upstairs to my bedroom and located my camera bag. I had several rolls to develop, and just the prospect of being able to see her beloved face again had my heart racing.

My phone rang just as I was getting ready to head into my dark room. It was Trey.

“Hey,” I said.

“Oh…it’s not good news then.”

“What? Oh. No, she wasn’t on the flight.”

“You still have her friend’s number, right? What’s his face—the one who said he’d have someone turn you into a woman?”

“Ronen?”

“That’s the one. Maybe he knows where she is.”

Jesus, I must be losing brain cells.
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Yeah. I’ll give him a call.”

“I’ll bring lunch by in a few hours, okay?”

“I’ll be in the dark room,” I replied.

“You still have to eat.”

When he hung up, I was about to call Ronen, but I realized that it was a little after four in the morning in New York.

“Damn it.” That would have to wait.

But the film…

When I had bought my place, I’d thought the central guest bedroom would be perfect for a dark room. Walking into it now, it was the closest thing to joy I could feel. I was comfortable in here, than anywhere else.

There were at least a hundred photographs of just Xanthe alone.

With particular happiness, I set up the trays and filled them with chemicals. The whole process of developing photographs was gorgeous, something I truly loved. It was a delicate labor that took patience. As much as modern photography was a wonder, to me, something was lost in the digital process. Of course, I used it. But, this way, I could watch the photos come to life.

With the red light creating a warm bubble around me, I hooked up my iPod to the sound system and selected the Johnny Cash playlist. Xanthe loved “Man in Black.” She’d confessed that to me our first night together after I had returned from showering.

As she’d been lying in my arms, I’d asked her a million questions.

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black,” she’d replied.

I’d found that interesting since I never saw her wear it. Her clothes were mostly grays, browns, olive greens, and denim. She wore hints of accent colors.

“What’s your favorite song?”

“Today?” She laughed. “Today is ‘Forty-Six and Two.’”

“You like Tool?”

“No, I
love
Tool.”

“I do, too.”

“I’ve also recently felt a strong connection to ‘God’s Gonna Cut You Down.’”

“Why do think that is?”

She’d shrugged, but now I understood. Xanthe might be a wary being, but she was honest by nature. Once she had started opening up to me, I could see it in her. Her ability to show no emotion was a learned habit. It was just another shield.

Xanthe had never directly lied to me. I was now convinced that had I asked her if she was Elaine, she’d have told me.

“Who makes you happy when you’re sad?”

“Rex. Jaime and Ricki. Lilla and Ronen. Aunt Ellen. Beefcake. You.”

“What’s the one thing that makes you relax after a hard day?”

“A beer and a joint.”

In that one second, I knew that this woman was just the most awesome thing the universe had ever created.

“What do you eat when you watch a movie in the theater?”

“I sneak in beef jerky. And I drink lemonade.”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

Xanthe secretly wished for magic to exist. I’d thought that was so wonderful.

I could see the world from her point of view. She’d opened my eyes to a brand-new perspective of all that was around me. It wasn’t that I wanted to keep seeing the world through her eyes. I
needed
to. She had shown me daily that there was a man inside me who needed to be recognized.

I liked him more than I liked the old me. I didn’t feel like that person anymore.

Before my eyes, Xanthe’s face bloomed into view—her eyes, her slight smile, a wild curl caught in a breeze and placed gently across her lips…

“Xanthe Love…” I breathed her name. It was so bittersweet. I cherished the ache in my chest now. It was the only thing left of her touching me anymore.

“What’s your favorite flavor?” I’d asked her.

The blush in her face had crashed in a heat wave against my chest.

“Raspberry.”

“What’s the last thing you usually think about before falling asleep?”

“These past few nights…you.”

That had nearly made me come again. My cock had swelled at that point, and I’d rolled her onto her back, snuggling into the warm apex of her thighs, and kissed her until we’d both been mindless.

With shaking tongs, I drew the first photos from the tray, slipping them into the next tray.

“What’s really your favorite flavor, Xanthe?”
I’d asked, grinding myself into her heat, knowing I was going to make her come.

“You.”

“You’re mine, too.”

Half of the first roll was drying on the clotheslines stretching across the ceiling when a soft knock sounded at the door.

“I haven’t turned on any lights. Can I come in?” came Trey’s voice.

“Yes,” I replied.

Opening the door just enough to slip his slender frame into the room, Trey’s eyes met mine and then darted to the photos.

“Is this her then?” he asked, walking up to the closest line.

“Yes.”

He took his time, looking at each one, before turning back to me. “I see it.”

“See what?”

“I see how she’s captivated you. She’s beyond stunning.”

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. It seeped out of me now. I could only nod.

“She could do modeling. Her face is so…”

“You should see the rest of her. She looks like a pinup under all those layers.”

Xanthe even dressed to shield herself. Her usual attire concealed the stunning form of a woman who was, in my opinion, the epitome of female beauty.

“I bet. Her chest looks generous.”

“She would never be a model.”

“Why not?”

“Because…I don’t think it’s her thing.”

Trey shrugged. “I brought sandwiches from Midland.”

I wasn’t hungry, but I knew he was worried. I’d eaten nothing substantial in days.

“Come on,” he said.

Taking one last glance at the closest photo, I sighed and then followed him out. In the kitchen, he had set the sandwiches on plates with a pitcher of cold water sitting between them. He was such a formal little fucker sometimes.

The memory of having hot dogs with Xanthe danced through my mind. We had just parked ourselves on a bench and eaten like urban savages right there.

“I got you roast beef.”

“Thanks,” I replied.

We sat down, and Trey immediately started eating while I picked at the bread.

“You know Timeless wants you because you look like a grown man, right?” he asked.

“Sorry?”

“If you show up on Wednesday, looking like a waif, they might think twice.”

“Pfft. I seriously doubt that’s even a possibility.”

Trey was tall and slender while I was just massive in comparison. I had a good two inches on him in height, but I considerably outweighed him. My muscle mass was easily twice that of his, and I had to maintain it, or I’d just look fat.

“Yeah,” he conceded. “But, Oliver…this is huge for FairFawkes. You know that, right? I mean, it’s what we’ve worked so hard for. Granted, we wanted to photograph and represent other people, but is it so terrible that you’ve been noticed for the handsome man you are?”

“I suppose not.”

“I promise you that when people realize the face they’re looking at has a wealth of talent behind it, they’ll want you for more than your looks. This is simply another stepping-stone. People will be searching social media for your modeling pages and will come across the fact that you’re, first and foremost, an artist. It’ll generate interest.”

I nodded.

“A company that makes beard products contacted me. A barber actually. Deo Dahl? His shop is really popular. London-based. He’s interested in having you as a spokesman. They’re sending a package of the product for you to try. If you like it, would you consider doing it?”

“Sure. What’s it called?”

“I think they’re called The Sophisticated Caveman.”

I grinned at that. It was a term Xanthe would appreciate. She had loved my beard, had taken every opportunity to touch it. I reached up now and stroked it, smoothing it down. I did grow an awesome amount of facial hair.

Trey’s eyes regarded me, silently appraising. I was used to it. It never made me feel uncomfortable. He was a man who loved to be esthetically pleased. Whether it was a beautiful person, a work of art, or even a particularly beautiful shot of nature, he loved seeing it.

“You’re going to take us straight to the top,” he said quietly.