Henry stares directly at him. His features scrunch together, mustering up an intensity Sergio is surprised by. It’s a very serious look for a five-year-old. Especially one as happy-go-lucky as Henry. “You still need to say you’re sorry to Jeremy.”
“I know, buddy.” Sergio gives him another squeeze, and Henry drops his head back again, looking at his surroundings.
“Jeremy!” he yells from upside down.
At least he didn’t do that in my ear this time.
“Hiya, Henry!” Jeremy yells back, and Sergio takes Henry to him.
When they get close enough, Sergio places Henry back down on the ground and then takes off his skis as he watches Henry run towards Jeremy before he’s cut off at the pass by Rose’s outstretched arm. “Careful,” she says.
“I know!” Henry says and wraps his arms around Jeremy’s legs right as Sergio arrives to the metaphorical applause of no one.
Well, maybe not no one. Allison looks at him with curiosity from where she’s standing beside Jeremy. She’s dressed for skiing in baby blue gear that looks exquisite next to her rich, dark skin. Sergio, unable to break old habits, smiles at her even though he’d much rather be giving his smile to the coach besideher. However, ignoring her would be rude, and he’s pretty sure that Rose would find a way to be upset with him for being rude to her skater almost as much as if he were trying to sleep with her. Which he isn’t. Tempting as it may have been when he first arrived, the combination of Rose’s wrath and his own reawakening feelings for Jeremy is more effective at getting him to cool his jets than the snow all around them.
From the side of his eye, he watches Jeremy as he listens to Henry tell him all about skiing. Jeremy is giving Henry his rapt attention, something Sergio would give anything to have focused on him again. He wishes they were back in that coffee shop nestled in the valley under the mountains of Nagano, Japan.
Four years ago
With his favorite vintage camera loaded with black and white film around his neck, Sergio entered a small coffee shop located a few blocks outside the Nagano, Japan Olympic Village. He’d been shooting athletes and elite fans with expensive tickets to the festivities all morning, and he wanted to take some time to photograph the locals who still needed to go about their day while the Olympic caliber chaos ensued around them. These photos weren’t going to be used for a feature or a spread. They were for Sergio and Sergio alone. Because again, despite all appearances, Sergio has a big heart, and he does find great comfort in witnessing the average person engage with the world through the lens of his camera. He likes the way it feels to create stillness in those moments of bluster and business with the click of his finger. Even more, he likes revealing that stillness days later while developing the film within the enclosed space of his darkroom.
Perhaps that’s a better metaphor for Sergio Durand’s heart. It’s held within the confines of a dark room, kept very safe and away from anyone who could ruin the contents inside by simply opening the door and shining in too much light.
Once at the café’s counter, with a series of points and awkward grunts in foreign words, he ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate donut covered in a layer of chocolate frosting and another layer of chocolate sprinkles. Not because that’s what he wanted, but because it was the easiest thing to order through the language barrier he found himself having to navigate with the young woman behind the counter. He tipped generously and held up his camera to show his interest in taking her picture. Through smiles, nods, and hand gestures, she communicated her permission, and he held the camera to his eye. She smiled the enormous smile of someone truly flattered to be asked, instead of the practiced smile Sergio was more accustomed to photographing when the subject was someone so used to having their photo taken they always appeared bored.
With his coffee and donut in his hands, he scanned the café, looking for a place to sit. It was packed, but one seat caught his eye. Tucked in the corner, as hidden away as someone could be in a place like this, was none other than the men’s figure skating gold medal favorite, Jeremy Owens, reading a book.
Odd,Sergio had thought. It seemed strange for one of America’s Olympic darlings to be hiding out. He should have been reveling in the fame like Holden and Rose.
His curiosity piqued, Sergio went to the corner table and very politely, as he does understand social graces, softly cleared his throat to grab Jeremy’s attention. When Jeremy looked up, Sergio was almost unable to speak, having been taken aback by Jeremy’s soulful brown eyes peeking out from under the front wisps of his hair pushed forward by his toque.
As distracted as he was by how handsome he found Jeremy’s face, Sergio did muster up some words. “Sorry to interrupt your reading,” he said. “But there’s no other place to sit. Would you mind if I joined you? I don’t bite, and I can entertain myself if you’d prefer to continue reading.”
Jeremy closed his book while slyly looking Sergio up and down, appearing to quickly do an assessment. He put his book down, tugged at the corner of his left eye, then gestured with his other hand for Sergio to take a seat. Once he did, Jeremy brought his coffee-filled mug to his lips and continued to eye Sergio over the brim.
“Thanks,” Sergio said, putting his coffee and donut down. He then slid into his seat, letting his knees brush Jeremy’s underneath the table. Holding out his hand, he said, “Sergio Durand.”
“Jeremy Owens,” Jeremy said, sliding his hand into Sergio’s grasp. He locked eyes with Sergio, and to Sergio, like the shutter of his camera flitting open to capture a moment, everything seemed to freeze for one split second.
Breaking that pause in time, he asked, “I’m not keeping you from anything interesting, am I?”
Jeremy cracked his cookie in half and, while taking a bite, he continued to study Sergio. His gaze skated over Sergio’s jawline, then traveled down his neck, and finally lingered at the juncture where Sergio’s neck dipped into the collar of his shirt. He looked back up at Sergio with a glint in his eyes and a redness on his cheeks. “That remains to be determined. It’s not every day a handsome man asks to join me for coffee.”
Interesting, Sergio thought. Jeremy Owens is bolder than Sergio had presumed he would be for someone hiding in the darkened corner of a coffee shop.
“Really?” Sergio asked. “That surprises me a bit.”
“How come?”
“Well, I’ve been documenting these Olympics. I find it hard to believe that an athlete with as high a profile as you have is in short supply of people wanting to join him for coffee.”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow at him. “So you knew who I was when you asked to join me?”
“I did,” Sergio confessed. “But I’d have asked to join you for coffee even if you weren’t on the cusp of becoming the next face of Wheaties.”
Jeremy’s eyes flicked to the camera around Sergio’s neck before he tugged at the corner of his left eye with the heel of his hand as though trying to clear an irritant. “Is this your angle to take the promotional photo?”
“No.” Sergio laughed, though if given the opportunity, he’d happily photograph Jeremy for any sponsorship or endorsement deals given to him after his predicted gold medal win. “I’m not even on assignment right now. This roll of film is for me.”
