He stands, wipes his face, and squares his shoulders.
“Come home with me,” I say. “Right now. Tonight. Come back to the loft and let me take the photo there. In our room. With the plants on the shelf behind us and the Gulf through the window. That’s where the photo should be taken. In our place.”
“You’re not putting a photo of me on your desk at a sheriff’s station looking like this,” he says, wiping his face with the back of his hand. “I’ve been crying, sleeping on a couch and my hair is a war zone. If you think I am going to let the first photo your colleagues see of me be this face, you’ve lost your mind. I need at least an hour. I need my hair product, my good pencil, and the ring light that’s in my bag.”
“Take all the time you need, though I think you look perfect just the way you are. You’ll have the whole drive to plan your look. The light will be perfect by the time we get back. Golden hour on the water.”
“It should be a sunset photo,” he says. “Through the loft windows. With the plants on the shelf. Both of them together. I need to get Frankie and pack my things. Give me two minutes.”
He disappears inside. I hear fast footsteps, a zipper closing. He reappears in the doorway holding his bag in one hand and Frankie in the other.
“I’m ready,” he says.
The drive takes thirty minutes. Benji is in the passenger seat with his bag between his feet, Frankie on his lap and the window down. The salt air wrecks his hair, and he doesn’t fix it. His hand is on my knee. His thumb moves back and forth.
I park the truck at the Roadhouse and transfer to the chair while Benji comes around with Frankie and his bag, and we go in through the front door together.
The bar is quiet. Two regulars at the far end. Sheila behind the taps.
She sees us. Her eyes go from the uniform to Benji to Frankie in his hand and her towel stops moving for exactly one second before it starts again.
“Well,” she says. “It’s about damn time.”
Benji walks to the bar and Sheila comes around. She takes his face in both hands.
“You scared me, baby,” she says. “Don’t you do that again.”
“I won’t,” he says.
She kisses his forehead. One firm press. Then she lets him go and walks back behind the bar.
We take the elevator up. He sets Frankie on the nightstand next to George. They’re together again. Then he turns to me. “I need one hour. Do not come to the bathroom. Do not knock. Do not ask if I’m almost ready. I need sixty uninterrupted minutes and then I will be the version of myself that goes on a desk at a sheriff’s station in Bay County, Florida for the rest of your career. This photo is going to outlast us both. It needs to be perfect.”
“Sixty minutes. I got it.”
“Not fifty-nine,” he says. “I’ll know.”
He disappears into the bathroom with his bag. The door closes. The shower turns on, then a few minutes later, the blow dryer.
I sit by the window and watch the pelicans diving in the water. At exactly sixty minutes the bathroom door opens. Benji walks out. His hair is pushed back with volume. His face is clean and the puffiness from three days of crying is hidden under whatever he did in that bathroom with products I will never understand.
“I’m ready,” he says. “Now where should we sit?”
He walks the room, looking for the best angle to place my phone and positions us. He wheels me to the window where the light is best and turns the chair so the Gulf is behind us and the plants are visible over my shoulder.
“Where will you be?” I ask.
“Right here beside you.” He crouches beside the wheelchair. His face next to mine. His cheek against my cheek. His favorite teal shirt against the khaki uniform. His painted nails on my shoulder. “Ready for me to set the timer on your phone?”
“I’m ready.”
He jumps up to set the timer, then moves back into position.
“Smile,” I say.
We both smile and wait for the countdown on my phone. Benji checks the photo and frowns.
“One more,” he says before setting the timer again.
