“But?”
I turn the pencil over in my fingers.
“It’s just me,” Charlie says gently. “You can talk to me.”
It takes me a second to meet his eyes. His gaze is warm. It’s as if I’m lying in a sun-dappled field in the middle of August.
“I don’t think I have a piece I’d want to display right now, not something that feels true to me. I know, technically, I’ve improved as a photographer, but I don’t feel connected to my work the way I used to.”
“How did you used to feel?”
“Alive. Excited. Like I was taking someone inside my head and showing them how I saw the world.” I watch water droplets trickle down the windowpane. “Since I’ve come back here, I’ve been remembering what it was like when I first picked up a camera. I took a lot of terrible photos, but I also captured shots that felt more personal, more alive than what I do now. I think I’ve been so caught up in building a career, in making my clients happy and working to earn my place, that I lost sight of what makesmehappy. The balance is off.”
He smiles. “It sounds like it’s time to correct the balance, then.”
“Just like that?”
Charlie’s stare is relentless. “If not now, then when?”
Every year we get is precious.
I’m at a crossroads.
“Do you think I should drop out of the show?”
He leans back in his seat. “Listen, if someone wanted to show off my work and tell the world I’m awesome, I’d be a cocky bastard. I’d rub it in the face of all my colleagues.” Imagining it brings a soft smile to my lips. “But that’sme. You’re not a self-centered ass like I am.”
“I don’t think you’re a self-centered ass.”
“That’s one of your flaws,” Charlie says. “But the fact that you have integrity isn’t.”
“I’ve done some work I’m not proud of because there’s a paycheck attached to it,” I tell him.
“You have no idea how much I relate.”
“Do you like your job?”
“Most of the time, not particularly.”
“Why do you stay if you don’t enjoy it?” I ask. “Trading must be extraordinarily stressful.”
Charlie’s gaze is as direct as his answer. “I like the money, Alice. I like it a lot.”
“Is that enough?”
“Sometimes. We never had much growing up. I can remember my parents at the kitchen table, sorting through the bills, so stressed. It seemed unfair since they worked so hard. They always figured it out, but I didn’t want that for myself. I didn’t want to be devastated by a car repair.” He leans across the table. “I’m very good at what I do, and I love being good.”
I digest this. “You’ve never really explained why you’re taking a sabbatical.”
There’s a moment of deliberation before he answers. “I needed a break.”
“How come?”
He stares at me across the table, and I can see a debate waging in his eyes.
“It’s just me,” I say, repeating his words back to him. “You can talk to me.”
His focus drops to the portrait he’s drawn, and he runs a finger over the squiggles of my hair. I’m not sure he realizes he’s doing it.
