He shrugs one shoulder. “Well, then … ?”
“Well?” I repeat.
“Well, what?” he asks, a flare of anger behind his eyes. Or maybe a challenge.
“Truce,” I suggest. “I’ll ignore gossip about you if you ignore it about me. And if you promise not to tell other people what I told you about me.”
“Your Los Angeles plans?”
“And the other thing I told you in the police station.”
“What other thing?”
Oh no. I’m not sayingI’M A VIRGINout loud on a coffeehouse ship. Absolutely not.
A couple of teen boys murmur as they walk past our table, and I hear Lucky’s name. Then the taller one looks at me andelbows his buddy, who makes a puckered-up kissy face at me.
Oh no.
“Do thatone more time,” Lucky challenges, standing up from the table and pointing in their direction, his face lined with anger.
The two boys look back at him, surprised, but keep walking.
Lucky sits down, and after a few moments, the anger drains from his features.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell him in a quiet voice. “But thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.” He stares across the harbor, watching a sailboat. “And as to what we were discussing before we were interrupted by the scum of the earth … I agree to your truce. And don’t worry about the other thing. It’s already forgotten. It also didn’t have anything to do with my decision at the police station that night.”
Okay. I don’t know what to say to that.
“Now,” he says, holding out a hand, “can I please see your work? It’s the least you can do, since I’m painting parking spaces at Summers & Co. You pretty much owe me forever, and Iwillmilk that favor.”
“Thought you weren’t a dirtbag.”
And there’s the smile again. Barely, but there. It flicks on a switch inside my chest and makes me feel like I’m glowing from the inside out.
“But Iama jackass, remember?” he says.
I pass him my portfolio. “How can I forget, when you keep reminding me?”
He chuckles briefly and unzips the leather binder to browse the pages of photographs. It’s obviously only a selection of my work, and I’ve included a smattering of things outside my wheelhouse to show range—a black-and-white portrait of my mom, a cityscape at night, a bookstore cat, and an action shot of traffic. But the bulk of the prints are photos of my signs. Two years’ worth. And watching Lucky pore over them, his paint-flecked fingers gingerly holding the page corners, the black cat tattoo staring back at me from his hand … It makes me feel self-conscious and expectant. Exposed. As if he’s stripping off layers of my clothes with each turn of the page.
I want him to say something. I want him to give it back to me. I want him to like what I’ve done. I don’t know what I want.
“Wow. These are …” He nods silently. “Really,reallygood.”
Oh. I exhale, relieved and spinning like a top. “Yeah?”
“These are all shot on film? Like, real film? Is that why they look this way?”
I’msohappy he asked. I wasn’t doing any of this work when we knew each other. I was barely interested in photography back then. All of this is new stuff to share with him, and suddenly it feels like I’ve only been away on a long trip, and we’re just catching up.
“No. Some of them are digital.” I wipe nervous palm sweat on my jeans and flip pages to show him which ones. “Digital iseasier, but the best cameras cost thousands. Film has more character, and I like the control of developing it. I like knowing I did it from beginning to end. No auto settings. No fake filters. My eye, my vision, my hands … I guess that sounds arrogant or artsy, or whatever, I don’t know.”
I’m a little self-conscious now.
But he just nods. “Respect. Absolutely understand that. Doing something with your own hands is satisfying. It’s a skill. And at the rate this world’s going, one day we’re going to wake up to find our electrical grid down and all our technology’s been hacked. What are we going to do when we can’t just ask a computer what the answer is? You know who’ll survive? The people who can think, and the people with skills. I’m not a great thinker, but I intend on surviving.”
