Good Guy
He’s 26.
Well, good thing I don’t have any savings. Older than I thought, but the math still isn’t mathing. I’m 34.
Good Guy
You date younger guys?
Never have.
Good Guy
Never???
It was always a rule of mine. Which, admittedly, I should probably reevaluate when I’m ready to date again because I have a miserable track record. But Ever is off-limits for so many reasons. 1. See above model comment. My feet are firmly rooted in reality where mega-attractive men like him are fantasy, not possibility. 2. Hannah’s contract states all the guys are off-limits. (Which is flattering, but laughably unwarranted.) 3. He’s a cool, talented, touring musician with endless possibilities; and I’m a suburban, unemployed project manager neck-deep in an existential crisis.
Good Guy
You had to sign a contract that you wouldn’t hook up with anyone?! $100 says you’re infinitely cooler than him. And you’re not unemployed. You’re a gifted, professional photographer.
The contract is comprehensive and forbids sex with anyone related to the tour while we’re on the road. Maybe this is standard filmmaking stuff, but it seems over-the-top unnecessary. And I’m not a professional photographer. I’m a woman who likes to take photographs and is lucky to have this opportunity.
Good Guy
You’re getting paid to take photographs. (You are getting paid, right??? Because if you’re not, I’m about to get VERY pissed on your behalf.) By definition, that makes you a professional. Own it, you’re a badass.
I’m hesitating because, technically, you’re right. (About the professional part. Not the badass.) Huh. There’s a warm and fuzzy thing happening in my chest right now. Thanks, Good Guy.
Good Guy
That’s pride. You earned it. And photos are always welcome and encouraged. I love seeing the adventure through your eyes.
You’re here with me in spirit, but I’ll send photos too. And that goes both ways, photos are always welcome and encouraged. Have a great day. x
His friendliness is rubbing off on me.
Good Guy
You too. x
I send Good Guy a few photos from last night, send Benji a quick text to say good morning, and then jump into last night’s photos. Yesterday was surreal in real time, but looking at these images brings it all back. I’m always judgmental about my work, but some of these are really good. The perfect storm of atmosphere, willing subject matter, moody lighting, and palpable energy made my job easy. The photos set themselves up. All I had to do was point and click.
Twenty minutes later, I’m lost in deep focus when a tap on my shoulder prompts a strangled scream from me. I swivel, hand raised to shield, push, punch, surrender, I’m not sure which, and find Jesse doubled over laughing.
“Fuck,” I whisper shakily. Lowering my hand and pressing it to my heart to make sure it’s still beating, I pull out an earbud with the other.
One of his big hands comes down on my shoulder, squeezes gently, and through the laughter, he says, “Girl, you can scream. I’m sorry, Soph, I thought you heard me coming. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Heads poke out of the door on the RV and the guys’ van as if synchronized, accompanied by shouts of, “Are you okay?” and “What the fuck is going on?”
I look at Hannah first, sleep mask pushed up into her messy blonde hair and mascara smeared under her eyes, and wave her off. “Sorry, I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”
When my eyes shift to Ever, he’s already halfway to us. His eyes are wide and his torso bare, and that’s where my visual assessment comes to a screeching halt. Defined and toned,everythingis staring back at me. Biceps, pecs, abs, even that V descending into his low-slung shorts that I was convinced was always photoshopped and didn’t exist on an actual living, breathing man—except maybe Chris Hemsworth—are all on full and glorious display. He’s also covered in tattoos from the waist up.
I press my hand a little harder into my chest and repeat, “Fuck,” but for a completely different reason this time.
Jesse’s laughter has died down, but he still sounds gleeful when he says, “False alarm, Ev. I didn’t know Soph had earbuds in, and I snuck up on her.”
