“I’ve thought about doing something different for a while. Getting a real job. Finding stability. But who wants to hire a girl with no college degree whose only relevant job experience is wrangling drunken bridesmaids?”
“That’s bullshit,” Hudson scoffs. “You started a company from scratch. You had to market and manage events. Hell, in the last two days, I’ve watched you navigate impossible situations,problem-solve, and manage different personalities gracefully. If you can handle a high-stress event like a wedding, I’m sure you could handle a team in corporate America.”
“I don’t need you to get me a job,” I argue, shutting him down. The last thing I want is for Hudson to see me as some charity case. Or worse, to find myself in the same position I was in with Phoebe, where I was just a tool in her work kit. She never really understood me. She always wanted me to be someone else, to censor myself, to tone down my artistic expression to meet the desires of the masses. And, over time, I adhered to her demands until the personality I displayed in my photos started to vanish and my work looked like everyone else’s.
“I know,” Hudson replies genuinely, “but I think you could do it, if you wanted to. Honestly, I think you’d be perfect for it.”
“Because my portfolio of taffeta gowns and three-tiered chocolate cakes really makes people want to buy hiking boots and plan a trip to the Alps.”
“No, but your documentary work does. I loved that photo of the man at the park, feeding the ducks. It reminded me of days I spent at the lake with my grandfather.”
I stare at him, incredulous. “You scrolled that far back?”
This time Hudson’s cheeks are the ones to flush. “To the beginning.”
“There’s like seven years of work on there.”
“And every single image captivated me.”
I roll my eyes.
“I mean it. There’s life within every frame. Like there was one shot, this pair of shoes that’d been discarded on the floor. You could see a part of the table, a half-eaten piece of cake, an opened bag, and a glass with lipstick on the rim. What other people might think of as a throwaway image made me feel as if I was there. I could hear the music in the reception hall. Feel the vibration of wood againstbare feet. Feel the joy of living in the moment. That kind of talent is rare.”
“I didn’t know you were such a fanboy,” I quip.
“Only for you,” he says, holding the camera up to snap a photo of me, catching me off guard.
“Delete that,” I command, certain that it caught me at my worst angle.
“Never,” he boasts, flipping the camera to show me the image. I usually dislike photos of myself, but seeing my reflection through his eyes makes me feel beautiful.
“It’s ... amazing,” I say, meaning it. The composition could use some work, but seeing the emotion within the frame, the genuine smile streaked across my lips, one inspired by him, makes me grateful to have it immortalized on my screen.
“I think so too,” he replies, staring at me as if he’s talking about more than the photo.
Snatching the camera back, I tuck it away in my bag. His job offer bubbles away in my mind. I’ve always assumed that I’d have to find a normal job, an office job. And I have to admit that kind of soul-sucking corporate environment kept the fire for self-employment burning. But I didn’t realize that there might be another option.
When I turn around, I find Hudson is removing his shirt, exposing the freckles that cover his torso. I can’t help but stare at his toned arms, the whisper of abs beneath his lanky frame, the trail of red hair that starts above his belly button and travels down into his shorts.
“What are you doing?”
“Going for a swim,” he says, stripping down to his black boxer briefs and extending a hand towards me. “You want to come?”
I divert my gaze from the bulge protruding through the thin fabric.
“I think we discovered yesterday that me and water don’t mix well.”
“There are no rapids here. No danger,” he assures me, wading into the water. And although I should have an aversion to all water-based activities, I find myself removing my clothes. His gaze lingers on my body, and I’ve never been more grateful to have put on matching underwear.
“I’m only doing this because it’s blistering out here,” I explain, as sweat drips down my back.
“Whatever you have to tell yourself,” he says, diving underneath the surface.
I go to follow him in and stop short when the water hits my knees.
“It’s freezing,” I shout, as he swims further away from the shore.
“You just have to go for it,” Hudson explains, dunking his head and popping back up like a mythical creature. Desperate to be near him, I close my eyes and jump.
