“Sam showed me some of your work yesterday—before you and I met—it was spectacular. Some of the best layouts I’ve seen in a while. You’ve got a real eye for it.”
“Thanks, you take really good photos.” I’m staring out the windshield when I say it, and already wish I could take it back. That was so insincere. From what I saw while loading his images yesterday, his work isn’t good; it’s gorgeous.
“No, my work is borderline stock photography. Or, well, at least it has been for the last few months.” He turns and looks at me, and my heart quickens. I hope we can go back to pretending there’s something between us—even if only for a few more minutes. “This sounds kind of weird, but I’m psyched to be doing this project. To make something and be inspired again with someone like you.”
I nod, and we fall into silence again, this time much less comfortable. Someone like me? The rumble of a large truck lurching next to us on the way to the port draws my attention out the window to the sea of cars and semi-trucks.
“Have you always wanted to be a photographer?” I blurt out, desperate to fill the silence.
“Kind of? I’ve done a lot of stuff—painting, writing, pottery, sculpting. Photography is the quickest one to make money with, so it kind of supports the others. Or, well, supported.” His brow furrows, and the grip on the steering wheel tightens. “I’ve become a part-time handyman, too. Which, honestly, sucks. Gotta make ends meet somehow here in California, huh?”
“Handyman? That seems like a leap, but I’ll keep that in mind,” I laugh nervously. You would think that as a designer, I’d have art hobbies, but I don’t. “I took a photography course once, and I just sat there confused and eventually gave up. I don’t think I could paint a stick figure. People always think I can draw.”
“You get that, too? People automatically assuming you can illustrate, edit a video, and build a website? Yeah, I’ve seen a little of that. So, what about you? Was this pursuing a dream, or are you one of the many who came here to work in film and then realized how hard that is to get into?”
I don’t enjoy telling people about me or my life; it’s led to too many people trying to trauma bond with me. Who I am in private differs drastically from who I am in public. I’m outgoing and fun, and I never miss out on a party, unless they get a glimpse of the real me. Then they learn I’d rather be in a secluded place with a book. That I’m hiding in plain sight from someone who knows exactly which buttons to push to send me into a tailspin.
So, I find a safe answer.
“I thought about film, but it wasn’t a priority. We came out here for school and better jobs—to start a new life. I think if I had gone into the film industry, it would still have been as a creative, behind the camera role.”
“We?” It isn’t accusatory, like he thinks I’m hiding a secret husband or something. I wonder if Sam or Dani gave him a heads-up about my mother—or stepfather.
“My sister and I. We moved out here together after we turned eighteen.”
“Nice. It’s better than coming here and not knowing anyone.” He tips his coffee cup all the way back, trying to get the last drop, and I notice a scar on his wrist near a small tattoo. I want to ask him about it, but then I’d have to open up about my life. “I could teach you some photography tricks.”
“Yeah, that would be cool.”
“Excellent!” He grins like that is the best answer he’s ever heard. There’s a pause, then he asks, “Where are you from? You said you moved here, but you never said where from, and you don’t strike me as a California girl.”
“I’m that obvious?”
“I’m asking too many questions, huh?”
Yes.
“No, but should I work on my vocal fry to blend in better? Wait, I don’t have some kind of telltale accent or drawl, do I?”
“No, nothing like that,” he laughs, glancing over at me before turning his attention back to traffic. “It sounds cliché as hell, but you’re just different.”
My therapists used to tell me I need to get closer to people and let people meet the real me. But why should I when they’ll just leave? If they don’t leave because of who I am or who my parents are, I’ll push them away because it’s better for everyone. So I just let them all think I’m allowing them in on my secrets and keep my disguise on.
“Because I’m still desperately clinging onto my high school goth phase? Or is it the hair?”
“No, and I love the hair.” His brow furrows as he thinks. “It’s like you’re two different people, but not for any superficial California reasons. The person I met at Sam’s office and the one from last night outside the club are two very different women. Like two different sides of the same shy coin.”
I stare at him while he drives, my mouth hanging open. Has he already cracked my code? Is he a mind reader or some shit? How did he do that?
“Oh, I’m not shy.” I watch him intently, hoping he believes me. “Yesterday was just a bizarre day. Between Sam’s project shuffling and Kennedy being, well, Kennedy, it stressed me out a little. Last night was just a build-up of tension and alcohol. I’m not usually like that.”
I’m talking too fast and I can’t help it, that’s my nervous tell. When someone gets too close to me, to who I’m trying to hide away, I talk faster to try to throw them off. Or to get out of the situation faster.
“Mmm, are you sure? Shy usually has a keen eye for spotting other shy people.”
“Wait, you’re saying you’re shy?”
“Angel, you have no idea.”
