I say a silent thank you to my earlier self for leaving my room key in my back pocket, and turn to my room door. Then, a swift breeze swipes the back of my neck.
“Nick,” I gasp, spinning back around to face him. My eyes climb the length of his body. His thick chest, the six-pack adorning his torso, the tapered V leading into his baggy sweats — they feel like an invitation.
“You were gonna leave me without saying goodnight?” He asks. My heart stutters, because if I’m not mistaken, I hear a thread of hurt in his raspy voice.
“I-I didn’t want to wake you,” I explain.
His big brown eyes shine with disbelief. “I understand,” he nods, resting his shoulder on the doorjamb. A beat of silence pulses between us. For the first time since we met, it feels a bit awkward.
“Well,” I say, looking away from him. “Goodnight, Nick.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. My heart drops to another level. I turn, clutching the key to my midsection as I take a step closerto my door. Then, I feel his presence behind me. He doesn’t touch me, but there’s nothing I want more. I want him to slide his hands over my hips and hold me close to his chest, to ask me to come back to bed.
I insert the key, and he takes another step forward.
My pulse spikes when he leans forward, leaving barely an inch of space between us. His mouth rests beside my ear. “Do you want me to come to bed with you, Snowflake?” He asks. My fingers tremble, tightening around the key so he doesn’t feel the effect he has on me. It’s futile. He knows. He has to, because he squeezes my waist, rocking my body back into his. I melt, releasing a breath of…relief? Satisfaction? It doesn’t matter, because all my anxiety leaves with that movement, and I feel nothing less than certain in his arms.
“Tell me, tell me you want me,” he says.
“I want you to come to bed with me,” I sigh.
“Open the door, Snowflake.”
I twist the key, push the heavy door open, and step into the dark room with his arms still wrapped around me. He kisses the side of my neck, inhales my scent. The roots of connection spread in my heart, and I consider how painful it will be to rip them out in a few days.
Closing my eyes, I stop my thoughts from spiraling. Despite what I’ve been through, I refuse to ruin this good thing, this necessary thing, by letting fear control my actions and derail my thoughts. He leads me to the bed, but the action doesn’t feel sexual. If I’m familiar with how that string of tension feels between us by now, I don’t think that’s what’s on either of our minds.
“Let me get undressed,” I say over my shoulder.
He nods, sitting on the mattress and watching me with a smile in his eyes that suck all the air out of my lungs. I change out of the satin pajama set I’m wearing and slip into some plain cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt with the Grinch on it.
“I have never regretted not having my camera on me more than I do right now,” he grins, shaking his head.
I suck my teeth, rolling my eyes. Truthfully, I love being in front of his lens. I’m all for self-love and affirmations, and I never need a man to make me feel beautiful, but there’s another level of admiration that comes from inspiring an artist. He’s been capturing candid moments of me all week, some of them in moments where I felt so free — so untethered from all the bullshit in my life. I will always be grateful to him for immortalizing them.
“How do you even discover you’re good at something like that? Photography?” I ask, the mattress sinking under my knee as I crawl into bed.
He falls backwards, his arms resting across his broad chest as he thinks about his response. I bring my knees to my chest, resting my head against them as I watch him. “I didn’t discover I was good at it. It’s more like I had the desire to be good at it. With a little curiosity, dedication, and time, you can become good at almost anything,” he says.
“Hmm,” I look over to the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “I never thought about it like that. What made you want to be good at it?”
“My mom was adamant about taking us to museums and art galleries once a month. One summer, we went to a Norman Rockwell exhibition. His art spoke to me, seeing those depictions of Jim Crow’s America. It was impactful…but off. It was missing something. I was standing there looking up atTheProblem We All Live Withand wondering what about it made it feel so detached. An older girl, maybe in her early twenties, stepped up next to me. It was like she could read my mind. She said, ‘It’s because it’s the white gaze. He’s trying to highlight the pain of people he doesn’t relate to — he couldn’t.’”
“She told me to look up the work of Gordon Parks, so I did. I signed up for the Dark Room elective the following semester at school and,” he shrugs, “the rest is history, I guess.”
“You downplay yourself,” I smile softly, although he can’t see it. “Plenty of people have their interests piqued by something and don’t follow through. You’ve not only built a successful career, but your stuff isreallygood, Nick. I probably don’t have the right words to describe it. I feel honored to be on the other end of your camera.”
“Photography is cool, but film is where my heart is,” he says, tilting his head back so he can lock eyes with me. They sparkle in the dim lighting. I feel like crawling over and leaving a kiss on his lips, but I sit against the headboard instead.
“What about you? How does one end up a Pilates instructor?” He asks.
“Ugh,” I groan. “It sounds so insignificant next to ‘filmmaker.’”I spread my hands in an invisible marquee above my head, my cheeks burning.
“Nonsense,” he mutters, pulling himself up in an impressive motion. Our shoulders press into each other, the heat of our bodies melting into good comfort.
“It’s no special story or come-to-Jesus moment that led me here,” I huff an indignant chuckle. “I had gained some weight that year, and my ex kept bringing it up. He ‘gifted’ me a yearly membership at a Pilates studio around the block from ourapartment,” I explain, air-quotations around the word ‘gifted.’ He was an asshole for that, and I should have left him then.
“I actually fell in love with the way it made me feel. My eating habits didn’t change, so I didn’t lose the weight, but I kept going. I noticed how some of the smaller women in the class looked at me like I didn’t belong. When the studio invited us to take the class to become instructors, I jumped at the opportunity. It turns out I love moving my body, and it’s so much easier to do that when you don’t have a bunch of elitist, fatphobic bitches trying to make you feel like you’re not supposed to,” I explain.
