“Why’d you finally decide to come?”
I crunched on a celery for a bit. “It’s not that I think tabloid journalists are beneath other photographers. But there’s a difference between feeling good about what I do and feeling good about how other people perceive what I do. And I knew my dad wouldn’t approve.”
“And so?”
Did I want to lay out my whole history—how I’d watched my parents make choices in the face of their own parents’ disapproval? Micah’s expectant expression encouraged me to give him a piece of the truth, but this wasn’t the place for unburdening the past, so I gave him the short version. “And so, one day, I decided I could wait until my dad died to start making decisions for myself, or I could live down his disappointment.”
He leaned back, considering that. “And what about your mom?”
“Mom? She supports whatever I want to do. She worries a whole lot, but she knows and loves Zion, so she believes I’m in good hands.”
He caught the attention of the waiter and had him refill our drinks. Before I could grab the reins of the conversation and make him answer some questions, he asked, “So Anika Jo, what’s your ambition? Do you have any long-term goals?”
I squinted at him. “I will answer your question if you tell me your full name. It’s only fair.”
He laid his elbows on the table. “Oh, you’re a negotiator.”
I licked my lips and crossed my arms. “Waiting.”
“I’m Micah Jordan Sinclair. Pleased to meet you.” He reached one hand out.
We shook, but then he didn’t let go. We rested our arms on the table, now joined together between the baskets of food and drinks. Half my brain zeroed in on the feel of his skin against mine while the other half lurched around for words to say to keep up the pretense of acting normal.
I processed his name for a second. “Jordan? So I’ll just be calling you Jor Jor from Jersey from here on out.”
“Oof. Anika and Jor Jor? Sounds like the world’s worstStar Warsporn.”
“It does!” I had to laugh. “Jordan’s nice, but Micah suits you better.”
“That’s just because it’s what you know me by.”
His finger stroked along my wrist, and it triggered a reaction down every corridor of my nerves. I could only manage a single-word response. “Maybe.”
“Now you owe me an answer. What are your plans?”
I’d hoped he’d forget. Nobody my age should be without a long-term plan. Instead, I cheated and told him something different. “I used to want to follow in my dad’s footsteps, but when he’s working, he spends way too much time away from people, way out in isolated locales. As much as I hate the invasive nature of my job, I love that I get to be out on the streets, meeting all kinds of people.” I squeezed his hand. “Like you.”
“I love meeting people, too. It’s half the fun of what I do.” His face suddenly lit up like a lightbulb should have popped out of the top of his head. “Have you ever considered becoming a concert photographer?”
The sudden change in conversation gave me a sense of vertigo. “What? No. What I did for Eden was the first time.”
“You should come out on the road with us and shoot our shows.”
My hand pulled away from him of its own accord. “You want me to be a groupie?” Even as I said it, I realized how passive-aggressive it sounded.
He sat up stiff. “I’m sorry. I get an idea and say things without thinking.”
I unclenched my fists. “I shouldn’t have said that. That was—”
He relaxed some, but he’d lost his friendly tone. “It just occurred to me that it wouldn’t be that different from what you’ve been doing, but maybe your dad would approve more. There are some very successful concert photographers. I looked up your dad’s photos after I saw his name in the paper last week.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. And then I saw what you did with Eden. You’re talented. I bet you could sell your photos to theRock Paper.”
“Oh, so you want me to help you get your picture in theRock Paper?” It would have been better if I could tell him what was really troubling me rather than tear him apart by lobbing these sarcastic barbs at him.
“Ouch. Is that what you think?”
