But as the days wore on, I could feel Alex grow more tense, more restless—on his laptop more, or worse, on his phone, once or twice picking up calls and having clipped, focused conversations about a job in Syria he’s only told me he’s still “thinking about.” He goes to see Patricia, but returns quiet, thoughtful, something closed off in those sea-glass eyes that keeps me from pressing, from taking the kind of chance with him that had felt easier when we had more privacy.
On Sunday, in a fit of what must have been post-honeymoon optimism or delirium, Kit had asked me and Zoe and Aiden to come for dinner, and while Alex had greeted me with an un-self-conscious kiss on the cheek, I’d noticed the difference in the way he moved in the space—tentative, unobtrusive, compact. On the first floor, there was no record of him—no newspapers left out, no laptop, no FG, no nothing. After dinner, excusing myself to the restroom, I’d made my way upstairs, unable to resist peeking into the guest room he’d been sleeping in—thatwe’dbeen sleeping in—and my heart had clutched when I’d seen the bed made so crisply, his rucksack stuffed full in the corner, as though he was planning to leaveat any moment.
On Tuesday, he’d come to the townhouse, an alarmingly lifelike mouse toy for Kenneth in one hand and a bottle of rosé for Ava in the other. “Good news,” he’d said, his brow smooth and untroubled for the first time in what had felt like days. He’d told me about the studio he’d be checking into the next day, and late at night—once we’d heard Doug’s gentle snoring through the thin walls—we’d turned to each other, Alex rolling me beneath him and whispering hot, filthy instructions about how quiet I needed to be, how slow I needed to move. When I’d been close to coming, the silence and slowness making my whole body heat and tense in postponed delight, he’d looked into my eyes and set the heel of his hand to my mouth, giving me something to bite down on, and that’s what had done it, another secret Alex unlocked about me as my body spasmed beneath his.
But afterward, he’d slept restlessly beside me, and when I’d woken in the morning—6:27, back to normal—he’d been on his back, an arm thrown over his eyes, as though he’d only succumbed to a short, unplanned nap somewhere inconvenient.
Trapped,I’d thought, watching him.Not enough freedom here for either of us.
As for me, I take photos like I’ve got something to prove, anytime I have a chance—some for my assignment, some not; some that borrow from the class lessons I’ve learned, and some that are uncalculated, sloppy experiments. I pore over them, desperately focused on the showcase, on the letter I need from Hiltunen, on my graduation. Last night, while Alex had finally been checking into his new place, I’d met Kit and Zoe at Betty’s, determined to capture a new portrait and a new crowd shot in the bar where we’d decided to take a chance on what turned out to be the luckiest ticket of our lives. I’d stayed late—late enough that it was easy to make an excuse to Alex, to tell him I’d see him at his new place tonight instead, once I finish my final classwith Hiltunen.
“This one’s nice,” says the professor now, his arms crossed over his chest as he looks up at the screen at the front of the room. For our last session, Hiltunen’s asked each of us to show up at scheduled times across our normal three-hour window, so he can help us make our final selections for the showcase. I watch him take in a photo from last night—Betty close up, the almost blue black of her blunt-cut bangs striking against her skin, one eye closed in her signature wink, a lucky benediction, the other open in all its blue, heavily eye-shadowed and winged-line glory, her nose scrunched, and her red lips exaggeratedly puckered in an air kiss. It’s loud and fun and vibrant. “Good color, good light. Is iton your theme?”
“Yes,” I say, but don’t bother clarifying. I’ll save it for the small caption I’m meant to write for each photograph I choose.
He clicks his remote again, which brings him to the ladybug from our third session. Bright and taking flight, it still makes me smile to see her. “Obviously you’lluse this one.”
“Yes. Obviously.” The colors from the photo project onto Hiltunen’s tiny-plaid shirt, and I look away from him, suddenly picturing Alex beside me at The Meltdown, when we’d looked at this picture together. I regret not going to him last night, not taking advantage of every second Ihave with him.
I shift on my feet, anxious to get this meeting over with.
“You’ve certainly got your four for the showcase,” Hiltunen says, clicking back through, his brow furrowed. He’s been mostly vague like this, carefully neutral, not giving me any indication about where I stand with his letter of support. Probably he wants to make sure my association with Alex pays off for him, that his showcase goes off without a hitch.
Behind me I hear the next student come into the room, and again I feel unreasonably restless, conscious of my photographs still on-screen, no matter that whoever it is has probably seen them before. I murmur my thanks to Hiltunen, eject my flash drive from the computer. The student who’s come in is one of the women working on a family theme, and she looks restless too, probably nervous about whether the professor will make another asinine remark about babies being “dull subjects, usually.” I give her an encouraging smile.
Outside the classroom I readjust my bag clumsily, my footsteps quick as I make my way down the hall. It’ll be easier with Alex tonight, in a space of our own. Maybe tonight, we can finally talk—about those work calls he’s been taking, about what it’s been like for him, here with Kit, about how it’s been going with Patricia. I can show him all these new pictures I’ve taken. I can tell him about this meeting with Hiltunen, about my day atwork yesterday.
I can ask him, maybe, about what comes next.
By the building’s front door, there’s a student standing in front of a large bulletin board. She’s holding up a poster-size sheet, her movements hamstrung slightly by the roll at the bottom of the thick paper, which keeps curling as she tries to put a tackin one corner.
“Need some help?” I ask, tamping down my desire to leave here, to get out into the open air and back to Alex.
She turns her head to face me, palms pressed against her poster. She’s on the older end of the undergraduate population, maybe a junior or a senior, probably taking summer classes or doing an internship. She’s got the effortlessly cool style of many of the students I’ve seen around this building in the weeks since I’ve been coming to class here. Her heeled combat boots—worn with short, frayed black shorts—are a red ombré that matches the ends of her hair. I’d probably have to sit with a heating pad for two days if I attempted those boots.
“Thanks.” She moves over slightly, and I take the box of tacks from where they rest on the ledge of the bulletin board. “You’re coming from the adult ed class?”
“Yeah, last one. Individual meetings tonight.”
“I’m Peter’s research assistant.” She drops the hand that had been holding up the corner I’ve just tacked. “Doing some last-minute publicity for the showcasearound campus.”
“Oh.” My thumb slips slightly on the head of the tack I’m adding. “That’s—” I break off when she takes a step back, smoothing her palms down to unroll the poster. The first thing revealed—big, bold print, headlinefont—is a name.
ALEKSANDR AVERIN
I barely process what’s beneath—a smaller, italic font that’s got words likeworld renownedandNational Geographicandof a generation. It’s all important, I’m sure, all true, and all likely to make Alex set his mouth in a tolerant but embarrassed expression.
But I’m too busy looking at the picture beneath.
It’s Alex—Alex’s silhouette, I guess, the long line of his body as he stands on the cement block sill of a huge, glassless first-floor window—bombed or broken out, not even a frame remaining. Beneath the sill there’s rubble—hulking, cement pile shapes, rebar sticking out and up haphazardly—but all of it has the effect of looking like a fire set beneath him, banked up either to keep him warm or keep him in place. All of his shapes are familiar to me—the boots on his feet, the utility pants that loosely cover his leanly muscled legs, the gorgeous curve of his back, only slightly compromised by the bulkier vest he wears over his T-shirt, his arms and hands held exactly the way he showed me on the day of our first lesson. The camera itself hardly matters—I’ve seen his Nikon before, inside the bag he usually kept on one of Kit’s dining room chairs, though never with this long lens on—but the way it looks like an extension of him does, the way he’s got his whole body held in relation to it. The spot in the center of him, the one he’d slapped his palm over—Stable here; In, out—is the dead center of this photograph.
“Wow,” I breathe, the only appropriate ending to my aborted sentence. I feel like someone’s punched me, right inmy dead center.
“I know, right? Last year the guest artist was the engagement portrait photographer for theBarden Dispatch. I can’t believe Hiltunen got Aleksandr Averin to come.”
I got him to come.I guess if I were feeling normal I’d appreciate the double entendre potential of that thought, but I’m absolutely not feeling normal. I’m feeling like this poster is reminding me of all the reasons Alex has had, over the last week, to look tense and restless. And all the reasons I’ve had not to press him, not to push my luck. Even when I sat in that lecture hall, weeks ago now, the first night Alex touched me, I hadn’t really gotten it. I’d known, in the abstract, that Alex had taken those photographs—beautiful and terrifying andwatching-is-helping. But I hadn’t really been able to pictureit, hadn’t been able to picture himdoingit. Notlike I can now.
I clear my throat, take a step back from thebulletin board.
