Nelle’s brows curve upward, hopeful. Her frizzy hair is swept aside. Where the neckline of the dress he bought her dips, a triangle of freckled skin splits her chest.
Lowering his mouth to her ear, he says softly, “I like the wayyoulook.”
She shivers. Retreats an inch to peer up at him.
The song ends and the bar goes quiet. Something shiny glints near the ceiling: a mirror ball, suspended over the crowd, reflecting a thousand colors.
“I’m ready to leave,” Nelle says.
Are you okay?he wants to ask, but she is grinning.
After James writes for her, they stagger down the street to a circular park. A ring of trees, waxy leaves black in the night, branches clinging to each other like desperate hands. Iron lampposts put off smeared, orange light. A sculpture of four women holding a bowl stands center stage.
James pulls Nelle into the shadow of the four women.
She spins, arms flung out, cutting wheels in the syrupy air. “It feels like heaven out here.”
His hand slides into hers, stopping her mid-spin, and he pulls her in, chest to chest. Nelle’s pulse ticks through her wrist, her sweaty knuckles interlocked with his. Their bodies were made to be pressed together like this, he realizes. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
“You’re the most beautiful person,” James says, the words falling out of him.
“Andyouare drunk.” Nelle boops his nose.
A bright, white flash has both of them spinning around, searching for the source. At the edge of the circle, beneath the trees, a man stands with a camera. He lowers it and shrugs.
“Hope you don’t mind. I’m writing an article about young love in big cities, and you two made the perfect candid. Maybe the cover shot.”
“Really?” James wraps an arm around Nelle. “We can pose for another.”
Nelle elbows his side. “We are not models.”
“No,” says the photographer. “That one was perfect, thank you. Would you two like a picture to keep?” He pulls a Polaroid camera from his bag.
“Sure, thank you,” James says. Under his breath, “Shortest modeling career ever.”
The man holds up the camera. “Saymoney!”
James turns to Nelle, but she is already facing him, nose pointed up. They lock in a stare as the world flashes like a strike of lightning, the camera purrs, and an image spits out.
Once it develops, the man hands off the photograph under the lamplight. Though a little underexposed, their faces are clear. Holding each other’s gaze. Statue soaring behind them like a shadowy monster. Trees frame the shot. Nelle’s sapphire dress sparkles, her hair is a wild mess, and James’s baggy denim jacket, a hand-me-down from his dad, swallows him whole. And they are grinning like they just won the lottery.
“Thank you,” Nelle says.
The man waves his hand—“No biggie”—and starts to pack up his camera bag.
In a tone so careless he surprises himself, James says, “Do you know any cheap hotels close by?”
Such an innocuous question, yet a month ago his anxiety would have shot it down.
The man pauses, closes his bag, and laughs. “It’s funny you ask.”
The photographer’s suite in the Hay-Adams hotel is decorated in whites and creams, with an enormous bed and brick fireplace. He said that he paid for five nights but could only stay four because of a family emergency back home. If they wanted the room, they could have it.
Nelle shoots for the room’s phone, probably grateful to see one with a cord. While James peruses the TV channels, she orders twocheeseburgers, two sodas, and ice cream sundaes. When she finishes ordering, he climbs off the king-size bed, choosingnotto think about the fact that he and Nelle will be sharing it. A line of miniature liquor bottles teases him from the minibar.
“What’ll you have?” He drops the bottles in a heap on the plush comforter.
“Quill’s drink of choice.” Nelle unscrews a bottle of whiskey and sips. She shudders, face scrunching. “He must’ve been truly miserable ifthiswas his escape.”
