“So, you want to go?”
“Yes, but I was thinking that you could submit one of your photos.”
There’s the kicker. “Babe,” I say as I shake my head. “Those are just a hobby that I hardly even take seriously. I’m far from having them displayed in a gallery of all places.”
She rolls her eyes at me, dismissing my words when she says, “Well, I happen to love the few photos I’ve seen. They’re a lot better than you think they are.”
“You’re cute,” I tease. The fact that she can view those pictures as something worthy of being displayed as art is a bit far-fetched for me.
“I’m serious, I think that you should at least submit something and see if it gets accepted. If not, nothing lost, right?”
“And if they are?”
A smile crosses her face as she says, “Then you can take me as your date for the showing.”
“If I say I’ll think about it, will that suffice?” I ask, but truth is, I’d take this girl anywhere for a date, so if that means submitting a few pictures, I’ll do it.
“Yep.” She looks like a kid who just convinced her parents to buy her an ice cream, and I can’t help myself when I bury my head in her neck and start playfully ravishing it, knowing how ticklish she is in the spot I’m nipping. She squirms, laughing hysterically as she tries to wriggle her way off of my lap, and when she finally manages, she catches her breath and says, “Show me all your photos so I can pick out the ones for you to consider submitting.”
Clearly I don’t get any input in her little mission. Sliding the door to my credenza open, I pull out the stack of mattes and hand them to her.
“Here, boss,” I say with a wink.
When she turns to head out into the living room, I follow and offer, “Want something to drink?”
“Yeah, anything hot.”
I begin to heat up some water and pull down the tea she likes. She’s been spending more time here, so we took a trip to the store, that way I could have some of her staples here at the loft. I love seeing pieces of her in my home, even if it’s as simple as a canister of her Harrods Ceylon tea that she brought over the other day. As I dip the tea bag in the mug, I look up, and she has the mattes lying facedown on the coffee table.
“I’ll be right back,” she mumbles before rushing off to the bathroom.
Shit. She hadn’t seen all the photos before, and I can only assume that she didn’t like what she saw. They’re mostly nudes, but she had to have known that by the few she had already seen.
I give her a few minutes, but when she doesn’t come back out, I give the door a light knock.
“What are you doing?” I ask suspiciously, even though I have a pretty solid idea as I step into the bathroom with her. When I take a step toward her, she takes a step back, keeping the distance, and the gesture irritates me. “Babe, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She’s being evasive, and I wish she would just be honest with me.
I drop my head and let out a deep breath, trying to control my frustration with her.
“Is it the photos?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but I feel like I need to spell it out for her because I know how much she likes to avoid talking when she’s uncomfortable.
She doesn’t answer, but her brows are scrunched with worry, and it’s all the confirmation I need.
“Candace, you asked to see them. You knew what they would be of.”
“I know,” she admits as she lowers her head and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would all be like that.”
Leaning against the sink, I cross my arms around my chest. I hate that I feel like I have to explain myself when I’ve been nothing but open with her, but I do it anyway. “They’re just pictures, that’s all.”
She takes a seat on top of the toilet lid and says, “But . . . they just seem so intimate.”
“Babe, don’t.” I drop my arms, hating that she feels this way because she’s got it reversed. There was nothing intimate when I took those photos. I have no connection to them.
She looks up at me, and I see the hesitation in her eyes when she quietly asks, “Did you sleep with them?”
“Yes.” I respond immediately, not wanting to bullshit her. Wanting to be completely transparent with her the way I wish she would be with me.
“How many have you . . .?”
“A lot.”
“And you photograph them?” Her words are laced with disbelief, and she’s got it all wrong, so I try to explain it to her.
“No. I’ve only photographed a couple of women. Most of those photos are the same person.”
“Oh.” Dropping her head, she tries hiding her insecurities that I can see right through. She’s so opposite of what I know she is comparing herself to. She’s modest and private. It’s been three weeks since Christmas and she’s never let me touch her, see her, anything.
Kneeling down in front of her, I grip her thighs and speak firmly when I say, “I know what you’re doing, and you can stop. None of them meant what you mean to me. I never had or wanted a relationship with them.”
“Then why?” she tries to argue, and I can’t stand seeing her doubt herself, doubt me.
I take her hands in mine, holding them, when I look into her eyes and give her another piece of me that only she gets to have. “Because for most of my life I’ve been lost,” I confess. “I dealt with a lot of shit growing up, and I used women as a way to escape. But when I met you . . . you’re just different. I wanted to know you, really know you. You’re nothing like those women. Nothing. I’ve never looked at them or wanted them the way I do you.”