Tears blur the beauty onscreen and I grip Canon’s forearms, sinking into the hardness of his chest.
“It’s fantastic,” I whisper, moved almost beyond words at the privilege of being in this film. “You’ve made something… Canon, this is so magnificent.”
“It is,” he agrees, excitement woven into the dark fabric of his voice. “You are. Everyone who sees this movie will see what I saw in you.” He turns me around to face him, his big hands resting at the curve of my hips.
“Which was what?” I ask, placing my palms flat against his chest.
“Light.” He cups my face, his eyes intent and unwavering. “I get it now—my mother’s fascination with light. She chased it for years, committing it to memory and film with every sunset. She taught me what to look for, and when I saw it in you, I recognized it. I didn’t fully understand what it would mean for me, who you would be to me, but I saw that light and wanted it.” He nods to the screen. “I wanted it forDessi Blue, and though I wouldn’t admit it, I wanted it for myself.”
“It was a crazy thing to do.” I chuckle, cupping the hard angle of his jaw. “Trusting some girl nobody knows with a movie this big.”
“I always know what I’m doing,” he says immodestly, grinning when I roll my eyes. “Enough about my brilliance. I mean, for now. We can revisit it later. Let’s get you some food.”
My stomach roils and I swallow another wave of nausea, but I smile and follow him back up the stairs.
We’re on our way to the kitchen when he stops and detours to a room through an archway down the hall. “Let me show you something.”
It’s a studio of sorts with a wide skylight, inviting light into every corner. A cushioned seat is built into one nook. The walls are filled, mere slivers of space separating the photos and shelves. Photographs of sunsets, ocean scenes, buildings, Canon at various ages, self-portraits of Remy Holt—her work takes up all the space on two walls. The other two walls hold shelves with more cameras than I’ve ever seen.
“Wow.” I walk over to inspect a vintage-looking Nikon. “This is some collection.”
“Hers,” he says, inspecting a selection of Polaroids showing Canon and his mother at the beach. “She was obsessed.”
I’m afraid to touch the cameras. It’s obvious they’re in excellent condition. They aren’t dusty, but shine and are neatly arranged.
“They still work?” I ask.
He picks up the Nikon and aims it at me. “Let’s see.”
The click of the camera startles me. “Canon! Don’t.”
One hand flies to my hair, covered by the silk scarf I slept in last night.
Lowering the camera, he offers a slight smile. “We don’t have any pictures together.”
“Is that true?”
“Someone may have snapped one of us on set or something, but I don’t have any.” He walks over to an old-fashioned camera on a stand. “Let me take a few.”
I don’t want him to. Call it vanity or fear, I’m not sure what, but something inside me recoils at the idea of documenting this time of my life. In the film, I have makeup and wigs and costumes and a character to hide behind. But here in the unforgiving light of day, there’s nowhere to hide. It’s just me and my battle scars and bald spots. He’s asking to memorialize it when I just want it to be over.
“A few,” I relent.
His triumphant grin makes me regret my acquiescence immediately because give Canon an inch and he takes a road trip. In a few minutes, he makes quick work of fiddling with the buttons and setting the timer.
“Look into the camera?” I ask, nervous for some reason.
“Look at me,” he says, bending, taking my lips between his, sucking gently. I lose myself in the kiss.
The camera goes off and I pull away, looking from his face to his lens.
“So just a picture of us kissing?”
“Can I take a few more?” he asks, walking over to grab the Polaroid camera.
“Okay.”
He extends his arm away from us, aiming at our faces pressed together. He captures us kissing, crossing our eyes, laughing. The camera spits each photo out and Canon lets them fall to the ground, not bothering to stop until several photos litter the floor, scattered at our feet. He collects them, opens a drawer with clothespins, and clips the photos of us to a line that stretches between walls.
