“No, though one day maybe, once I’ve developed a portfolio.” I held my breath a beat to moderate the gushing speed of my vacuum-like sucking up.
He rubbed his chin, eyes narrow. “Did you take a class with me at the Arts Annex?”
“Nope.” I pressed my lips together. Stuart dealt in photography and would figure it out sooner or later, so I fed him the bread crumbs. “Maybe you know my dad. Chandra Namputiri?” Only a true photography aficionado would be able to connect the dots from my dad’s name to mine.
Apparently Stuart was an avid fan. His eyes lit up. “Ah, yes. That’s it.” He turned to Lars. “I’m sure you’ve seen his work inWorld GeoPolitical.”
“Of course. Stunning photographs.”
Of course. My dad’s photos hung in the National Gallery of Art.
The pieces clicked into place, and the features on Stuart’s face lifted like he’d been injected with helium. “And you must beAnika Namputiri.” He said it as if my name was the title of a book. I hadn’t gone by Anika since I started kindergarten. I’d never gone by Namputiri. Mine was the most obscure fame imaginable—a trivia question for photography geeks.
Lars nodded as if he knew, but his eyes glazed with lack of recognition.
Among my dad’s more popular works were a couple of portraits of a daughter he must have once viewed with the same curiosity that drove him deep into the Serengeti or around the corner to Little Five Points, his mind translating the world into compositions of color and shapes. They hung in private collections or galleries, usually with my Indian name, a name I tried to forget.
My favorite photo of his caught me, perpetually tan, running through our backyard sprinkler, rainbows of water spraying, my eyes closed as a smile of pure delight spread across my face. That one hung in a hallway at my mom’s house, though. At some point, I’d become another piece of the furniture, inconsequential backdrop to more interesting people in the world.
Stuart held his plastic cup toward me. “I see you’ve followed in his footsteps. How is he?”
“I wouldn’t know. He lives in India with his wife.” Stuart’s eyes slid away from me briefly. But it wasn’t my shame that my dad allowed his parents to pressure him into returning home, that he’d chosen a new family over me. It was his life. Still, it wasn’t Stuart’s fault the situation was awkward, so I tried to pull the conversation out of the nosedive. “I’m sure he’ll get the itch to travel again sooner or later.”
In every picture I’d ever seen of my dad, he held a camera. He’d left me with that same love of photography—and abandonment issues when he never returned.
Lars indicated the camera hanging from my shoulder. “Are you here on assignment, or are you permanently attached to your camera like your dad?”
“Assignment.”
“Oh? Who do you work for?”
“Andy Dickson at theDaily Feed.”
His mouth twisted into a subtle sneer. He caught it and corrected it, but I saw it. “Well. It was nice to meet you.”
Their heads bent down, and Stuart began talking low to Lars. “Did you say Marta’s at Johns Hopkins?”
The conversation changed to things that obviously didn’t concern me. And just like that, my dream of making connections in high places burst into flames. I stood awkwardly, casting about for a convincing escape route.
I took a step away and ran smack into Micah’s chest. “I thought you’d left.”
“Nope. Thought I’d give you a chance to talk to your own kind.”
“I don’t have a kind.” I meant it as a joke, but the truth of my statement right on the heels of such a stinging rejection and invasive thoughts of Dad made my lips twitch into a frown. I swallowed down the traitorous emotion.
As if Micah caught my emotional upheaval, he laid his hand across the small of my back and led me to the far corner, near the soundproof booth. “Is everything okay?”
I forced a smile. “Yes. Thank you for introducing me to Lars and Stuart. I’ve admired both of them for years.”
He relaxed and sat on an amplifier, indicating a stool beside him. “I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve always wanted to be featured in theRock Paper. I mean, as a musician, not as—” He blushed adorably.
“You haven’t been?” I recalled the Pretty Boys spread and winced. “Hasn’t your band ever been featured?”
“You’d think so. I’ve known Lars for a while, and I can’t get him to do a friend a favor.” He laughed, and I got the feeling he was intentionally abasing himself to cheer me up. I was grateful to him for that kindness. “Maybe I should pay him more.”
I didn’t have to force a smile at that. “It’s his loss. I could offer to do a full-length article on you for my paper, but you might not like it quite so much.”
“I might if it meant you had to spend some time getting to know me.” He struck a teasing tone, but the sincerity in his eyes knocked me for a loop.
