5
I’ve tracked Halston down twice now.
I can’t do it a third time.
Fate may have brought her to me, but at some point, I have to admit it might’ve actually been fate’s asshole cousincoincidence. My instincts have been off before—more severely than I’d like to admit. If it weren’t for the boyfriend, I’d do it. I’d go after her like the persistent fuck I am when I want something badly enough.
Why does there have to be a boyfriend? How is that I’m torn up thinking about another man’s girl,again?
I’m on the sunny, open second level of an Upper East Side apartment shooting senior class photos for a group of girls when I get the call that changes everything. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I saw Halston in person, but I was with her all night long. As I read more, I felt her with me. I pictured her writing in her journal, fantasizing as her pen moved across the page, then acting out those desires with me.
Pry me apart
Make it slow
Forget my heart
Make it fast
Pry me apart
My thoughts, my thighs
Whatever it takes
Your truths, your lies
Lows and highs
There is no feeling
Like having you inside
When the sky falls through the ceiling—
“Mr. Cohen?”
I start.Fuck. I forgot where I was. One of the moms is holding out a coffee. It’s not from Lait Noir, but I accept it. That’s when I look around and realize I’m sporting a hard-on in a roomful of teenage girls and their moms. I’ll be lucky if they don’t arrest me. “How do you think it’s going?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sure the photos arewonderful,” she says. “You seem to know just how to get the girls to liven up . . .”
I stop listening. I could give two shits what they think, it’s not exactly my best work, but conversation will distract from my disheveled state. The students chew on ice in a corner. When one of them asked for snacks, they were denied. Anything other than vegetables might make them bloated, and carrots or celery would leave food in their teeth. This is the sort of thing my ex, Kendra, would do—hire a private photographer when the school provides a perfectly good one.
I return my attention to the mother as she speaks. She’s not my type with pearls coiled around her neck, and styled, crispy hair. She’s also several years my senior, but I catch myself noticing the line of her collarbone, the delicate bracelet on her wrist, the resemblance of her hair color to coffee. I don’t want to take measured photos of snotty girls in uniforms. I want to make people feel the way Halston just made me feel without us even being in the same room.
Caught.
Flustered.
Hot.
Guilty.
I haven’t been able to do that since Sadie. I’ve photographed other women for my portfolio, but they might as well be inanimate objects. Sadie continues to fuck me over a year later, stealing not only my future and my family from me, but my art too, the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do with my life. Now that Halston’s reminded me how it feels to be feverish and consumed by someone, I want to turn my lens on her.
My back pocket vibrates, and I get out my phone. It’s an unknown number, which could be new business. “Excuse me,” I interrupt the mom, handing her back the coffee. “I have to take this.”
Crossing the room for some privacy, I answer the call. “Finn Cohen.”
