Once the test strips for all five negatives are dry, I evaluate them in actual light again, five strips per photo, all in varying degrees of brightness. When I find the exposure I want, I mark it with a Sharpie.
Technically I should have taken these photos in a light box,where I could have controlled every variable down to the color of the background, and I’m pretty sure that’s what the professor expected us to do when he gave us this assignment. I might end up having to do just that if he makes me start over. But for now, I prefer this kind of photography. It feels raw. Real. It’s a moment of actual time, frozen and preserved. This is why I’m so drawn to narrative photography—I like to be able to tell a story with my images. Atruestory, through a snapshot of someone’s life, not a sterile constructed scene.
I’m so absorbed in studying my test strips that I’ve blocked out the rest of the room, the other students out of focus and blurry, which is why I don’t notice someone standing just over my shoulder until they speak.
“I like this one,” Wyatt says, and I drop my Sharpie.
“What?” I say as I fumble around on the floor to find my pen. Which puts me on my knees, of course.Shit.
Once I’m back on my feet, he steps forward to stand next to me properly and taps below one of my negatives. “Hard to say for sure without a loupe, of course, but from what I can tell, it has great composition. Good balance of tonalities—unique. Is this for Héctor’s class?”
My brain is still catching up to the reality that Wyatt Cole is right next to me, his shoulder very nearly brushing mine, and he’scommenting on my art.My mouth keeps trying to say something in response, but the single neuron in my mind keeps firing at the same fucking frequency over and over:Holy shit it’s him it’s him it’s him.Not exactly the paragon of maturity here.
Of course, on the other hand, he still hasn’t written me about looking at my portfolio. Maybe I should be less concerned about the famous Wyatt Cole and more concerned about the dude Wyatt Cole, who can’t figure out how to send a freaking GCal invite.
My brain, however, can’t tolerate that level of bitterness at this precise moment.
“Yes,” I manage, maybe a second too late, maybe three—hard to say. Definitely late, though. “Printing Techniques. We’re supposed to do a still life.”
“Not exactly a classic still life, though, is it?” murmurs Wyatt, who has tilted forward and stolen my loupe already, peering at my negatives like my uncle Chaim the jeweler used to look at diamonds—no doubt searching for a flaw. And I’m sure there are plenty.
“It’s just a start,” I tell him. “I might reshoot in a light box. Haven’t decided yet.”
And now that my neural circuits have figured out how to function again, they skip directly fromclose proximity to hot man I fucked onceand make a beeline to the safer ground ofasshole who never emailed me like he said he would.
Wyatt is still looking at the negatives, a small smile lingering around his mouth. Probably laughing at me for thinking I can get away with submitting this bullshit to Pérez-Wahid when I know damn well it isn’t the actual assignment.
“You never emailed me,” I say.
It comes out forcefully. Maybe too forcefully…but you know what? I’ve waited all week for this guy to make good on his promise. But nope, he clearly planned to ghost me and get away with it. No doubt relying on my insecurity to stop me from ever chasing him down. Which just goes to show how little he knows me, even if heisan expert in my seltzer taste. (And,a little voice tries to remind me,other tastes.But I’m not thinking about that right now.)
Wyatt finally lifts his head. I don’t wait for him to look me in the eye before I keep going—no point in giving him a chance to derail the conversation before I’ve said my piece. “I dropped your class, like you wanted. All nice and ethical. So, what happened to all those promises about looking at my portfolio and teaching me one-on-one? Anddon’tsay that’s what you’re doing right now,because it isn’t. You can’t waltz in here and drop a couple stale comments about my negatives and think that passes for a fair trade.”
I have to stop myself from going on. Once I start ranting, it can be hard to hold myself back. (You’re too intense,Chaya whispers again in the back of my mind.) The last thing I need is to look even more unhinged than I actually am.
In lieu of saying anything else, I cross my arms over my chest and lift a brow in Wyatt’s direction. He makes the same expression back at me—although it fails to have the desired impact since it’s physically impossible for him to look angry with those big sad cow eyes.
“I’m sorry if it seems I’ve been ignoring you,” Wyatt says after a long moment, long enough that my pulse has started to slow down a little. “To be entirely honest, I’ve been putting it off. I’m sorry.”
He’s being too nice, and he can’t quite look me straight in the eye. And I don’t think I’m imagining the faint flush of color lighting up his cheeks. It’s harder than it should be to keep from yielding. “And?” I manage.
“I’ve been looking at your materials, and I was meaning to email you…. Listen. How about Tuesday at five? I can reserve a room for us. And if there’s other work you’d like feedback on, send it to me. Let me make it up to you.”
Cool. So, I’ve officially humiliated myselftwicein front of Wyatt Cole, which has got to be some kind of photography-student record. He freaking owes me…but now I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy. I can’t hold his gaze. The big sad cow eyes have become too much.
I pretend to pick a loose thread out of the bottom button on my shirt. “Right. Wow. Okay.”Be the bigger person, Ely Cohen.“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that.”
“It’s all right,” Wyatt says, showing me the exact kind of quickand easy mercy that I would never have given him. “You’re right. I’ve been avoiding you. It’s just…I mean, you know. I don’t have to tell you what it’s like…between us. It’s hard to keep things…”
He trails off and I steal a glance up. Wyatt has one hand braced against the light table, his slim hip jutting out slightly to graze his tattooed thumb. His face, when I dare to look that far north, is tipped away from mine as Wyatt stares fiercely at some point on the far table.
He likes me, he likes me not. And helikesme!
Okay. He wants to play professionals? I’ll be professional.
This is the problem with being around genuinely good people. They never fail to make me feel about as charming as a nugget of dog poo on Mark Zuckerberg’s flip-flops. I feel like a perv for fantasizing about that tattooed thumb digging into my thigh when Wyatt is over here trying to be an adult and shit.
“It’s fine,” I say at last, stuffing both hands into my jean pockets. “So I guess…Tuesday, then.”
