Logan even starts to smile in some of the photos we take, and at first I think I’ll just save those pictures for myself. But some of the pictures where he’s laughing are the ones where he looks the most radiant.
The smoldering, serious ones look hot, too. Obviously. But in the ones where he’s smiling, he’s never looked more like himself. I can’t think too hard about it or I’ll slide back out of my professional mode and start to freak again.
“Okay,” I tell him as the sun is just starting to set behind the city. “The final shots we need to get are the ones where you’re spread eagle, gripping your ass to show the world your hole.”
He snorts. “If you want pictures of my ass, all you have to do is ask, Chase.”
“I was kidding. But you can feel free to text me pictures like that anytime.”
Logan reaches his arms up above his head, stretching. He strides around the studio, looking at my art more closely now.
“What are these?” he asks, pointing at some black-and-white photos in a stack.
“Oh. Those are for a little event I entered into. It was just one of those little photography competitions where you can win a spot in a gallery show. They wanted pictures of ‘Old New York,’ so I went around with my medium format camera and shot the oldest buildings I know. Not just the famous places, but also older convenience stores and stuff.”
Logan starts to card through the photos, his eyes closely focused on them. “These are amazing,” he murmurs. “They’re like living history. It’s not like the stock pictures of the city you always see. How old was this guy?”
I look over and see the picture of an elderly man working in a tiny flower shop. “I didn’t ask, but he said he’d owned that shop for 75 years, so he has to be well into his 90s.”
“Incredible. I’m sure you’ll win a spot in the competition.”
I nod. “Oh, I already got in.”
He glances up at me, his eyes shining in the last remnants of the sunlight. “Wait. Seriously?”
I wave my hand through the air. “It’s really not a big deal. Trust me.”
“How many times have you had your work shown in an art gallery?”
I run a hand through my hair. “Well, this will be the first time I’m in a real gallery, and not just a friend’s house party or something. But I’m telling you, it’s just a small independent place.”
“When is the gallery showing?”
“Tomorrow night. That’s why I have these shots out on the table, I really need to put mats behind them and get them into their frames, like, the minute you head out tonight.”
He nods, looking back down. “What’s the gallery called?”
“Fractal Gallery. It’s on the Lower East Side.”
Logan still looks far more impressed than he needs to be by this information. I didn’t expect him to even notice my black-and-white city shots while we’re in my studio that’s overflowing with all of my usual loud, colorful paintings, but it makes sense that he’s the most drawn to the art that’s less… confrontational.
“I’ll stop by,” Logan says.
I blink at him.
I set down my camera on the table, eyeing him.
“You sure you’re not afraid you’ll get spotted there?” I ask.
“I will be spotted there. But famous people go to art shows sometimes. I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t be seen.”
I feel like I’m trying to shove a fireworks show into a box inside my chest right now.
“Cool,” I say, giving him a nod. “I’ll tell them to add your name to the list.”
And I keep acting like I’m not absolutely fucking screaming inside, because Logan just told me he’s going to go to a public goddamn event just to see my work on display.
CHAPTER 21
