“It’s a professional account. I’m not going to post selfies.” Yuck. “And Ihatehaving my photo taken.”
Charlie grins. “Isn’t that a cliché—the photographer who can’t stand being in front of the camera?”
“Shut up.” I poke his leg with a toe. “What’s on yours?”
He looks at me, eyebrows raised. “You’d know if you followed me.”
I can’t quite explain why I haven’t. Maybe I’m afraid to see Charlie’s life beyond the lake.
“Fine.” I send him a follow request, and he immediately accepts.
“See,” he says as I look through his photos. “It’s a bunch of random shitandselfies.”
Photos of the lake and the boat. Most are of him with friends. There’s one of Charlie with his arm around Sam on what is clearly his wedding day. Both are dressed in suits. Charlie points to himself. “Sexy as hell.”
“You know, I’ve met professional models who aren’t as confident about their looks as you are.”
“I could be a model.”
I laugh. “You’re too old.”
“Fuck off.”
I peer at the side of his head. “I think I see some silver in there.”
“You do not.”
I don’t.
“Yeah, right here.” I run a finger over his ear, and he turns his head quickly, capturing it between his teeth.
Somehow I find myself on my back with Charlie straddlingme. He locks my wrists above my head with one hand, while he reaches for my camera.
“Put that down, Charlie Florek,” I say. “You don’t even know how to use it.”
“I’m getting better.” I’ve been showing him a few basics. “Come on. Just one. You’ve spent the whole summer getting shots of other people. Why not one of you, too?”
“I never let anyone take my photo.”
“Why?” Charlie shifts off me. I right myself, legs folded underneath me so I can face him.
“It makes me extremely uncomfortable.”
He sets the camera down and holds up his phone. “Would this be easier for you? I don’t have any of you, and you probably have thousands of me by now.”
“All right,” I huff.
I watch him focusing on whatever he’s doing with phone settings. He’s so handsome.
“Are you ready?”
“No.” But I smile my cheesiest, toothiest smile.
“Beautiful,” he says when he’s finished.
That night, after Charlie has brought Nan home and we wish him a safe trip to the city, I get a notification: charlesflorek has tagged me in a photo. My chest tightens as I study it. Charlie must have been shooting before he asked if I was ready. It’s me, staring at the camera, staring at him. There’s a gentle smile on my mouth, and my eyes are warm. I look happy—no, it’s stronger than happiness. I look like I’m at peace.
The caption is short. He’s only used one word.
