I put the brush back on its hook, picked up my camera bag, and walked out into the yard. The sun hit me full in the face and I squinted against it and headed for the garden, because I had work to do and work was the one thing I’d never been unsure about.
I spent the next two hours shooting roses. The garden trellis, the limestone wall, the climbing blooms in deep pink against the old stone. I shot close-ups with water drops from the irrigation and wide frames with the Hill Country ridge behind the wall. Good work. Sharp, well-lit, steady. I didn’t need to think to do it and that was the point.
Wade found me at ten-thirty. I heard his boots on the gravel path before I saw him, and I lowered my camera and stood up from the crouch I’d been in and waited.
He came around the corner of the trellis with his hat off and his hair pushed back and his jaw set in a way that said he’d been looking for me. His eyes found mine and held.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” I adjusted my camera strap. “I’ve got a lot of shots to get through before tonight, so—”
“Layla. Stop.”
I stopped.
“I know what you saw yesterday,” he said. “And I know what it looked like. I need you to hear what actually happened.”
“You don’t owe me an explanation.” My voice came out smooth and professional and completely unlike the voice of a woman who’d slept with this man two days ago. “We had a good time. You don’t need to—”
“A good time.” He repeated it back to me with a flatness that made me flinch. “Wednesday night was a good time to you?”
I didn’t answer. The sun was hot on my shoulders and a bead of sweat ran down the back of my neck and his voice was not helping.
“Crystal stepped in close,” he said. “I was telling her it was over. She saw you coming around that corner and she pressed against me and held the pose long enough for the shutter to fire. I was pulling her hand off my chest when you took the picture.”
“You had your hand on her arm.”
“I was removing her hand from my body. Look at the angle, Layla. You’re good enough to see it. Look at my grip. That’s not holding on. That’s pulling away.”
The words sat between us in the hot garden air. A wasp circled a bloom near his shoulder. I wanted to hold my ground. I also wanted to believe every word out of his mouth, and those two things were not getting along.
“Crystal was my girlfriend for six months,” he said. He took a step closer. “Six months of red carpets and industry parties and interviews where we looked great next to each other. She knew my streaming numbers. She knew my label. She knew my marketing strategy and my tour schedule. She never once asked me what music I listened to when nobody was around.”
He was close enough now that I could smell him. Soap and cotton and the warm skin underneath. My body remembered that smell and was not interested in the argument my brain was trying to win.
“Every woman since the fame has wanted the product,” he said. “The hat, the charm, the name. Crystal wanted it more than most because she’s in the same industry and being next to me was good for her brand. She showed up yesterday because she monitors my bookings. Kirby’s wrist gave her the excuse.”
I looked at him. His blue eyes were level. No charm. No performer’s grin. His hat was in his hand at his side and his hairwas messed from running his fingers through it and he looked tired and honest and like someone who had not slept well.
“Why should I believe you?” I said. The question came out smaller than I intended.
“Because you’ve had a camera on me since Monday,” he said. “And every frame you’ve taken of me looks different from every frame the press has ever published. You see through the performer. You always have. You saw it in the first five minutes.”
Something gave. Not completely. But enough.
He sat down on the stone bench by the garden wall and set his hat beside him. He looked up at me, and without the height and the easy stance he was just a man.
“Tell me about the stage fright,” he said. “The real story. Not the two-sentence version.”
I sat down next to him. Not close. A foot of heated stone between us. The roses climbed the wall above our heads and the bees worked the blooms with single-minded dedication. I picked at a thread on my jeans.
“Texas State,” I said. “I was a sophomore. Music and photography dual major. There was a recital. End-of-semester showcase. I was supposed to sing two songs. Original compositions.” I took a breath. “I walked out on stage, looked at the audience, and my whole body locked up. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. I stood there for maybe thirty seconds, which doesn’t sound long until you’re the one standing in the light while two hundred people watch you drown. Then I walked offstage and didn’t sing in front of anyone for six years.”
“Until Tuesday,” he said.
“Until Tuesday.” I almost smiled. “I switched to photography full-time. Dropped the music courses. It was easier. Behind a lens you can see everything and nobody sees you. I could still be creative, still be in the arts, without ever having to stand in the light again.”
“And the singing? You just stopped?”
