Behind His Lens (5 page)

I have two hours to g
lance numbly around my empty apartment.

I don’t like these gaps of time in my life. I keep my schedule filled to the brim with activities, carefully planning each hour of my day. These unforeseen quiet moments are when my thoughts drift toward the blackness I’ve fought so hard to leave behind. The phrase “an idle mind is the devil’s playground”
repeats in my head as I glance down at my phone to see it’s only a quarter after five in the morning.

I know I woke up earl
y today because of
him
. Because of Jude. I could barely get to sleep last night. Every memory of the day replayed behind my closed eyes last night, keeping my senses tingling and my mind racing.

After the gown ‘incident’
, he practically ignored me. Mrs. Hart directed most of the remaining shoot, which ended up wrapping earlier than I was expecting. She loved the first shots so much that the next few outfits only took a few minutes to shoot. By the time I’d returned from scrubbing off my makeup and changing back into my clothes, the set had turned into a desert town. Jude’s assistants were meandering around, breaking down lights and packing up the diffusers – Jude was nowhere to be found.

I guess his work was done. 

With a sigh, I roll onto my side to examine the early morning light casting shadows across my room. I would try to forget about him completely, but our photo shoot recommences on Monday after Mrs. Hart and her team finalize the Fall Fashion pieces they want to feature. Will he be there Monday?

I
was actually sad when I realized he was gone.

But what was I expecting? He works with models all day, every day. It’s clear that any attraction felt was strictly one sided. I tug a hand through my hair to jar me from the embarrassing realization. Enough.

Before my brain can protest, I jump up and throw on my black capri leggings and my blue Lululemon Runners pullover and lace up my sneakers. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll check my mail and then see if Mrs. Jenkins is awake. She’s always eager to chit-chat, especially when I agree to eat some coffee cake with her.

…

The red line is empty when we board at the Greenwich Village stop. Naomi and I plop down next to each other on a pair of orange, plastic chairs. She always lets me have the window seat so that I can stare out and watch the dark tunnel whip by.

“I hate you, did I mention that already?”

Breaking my trance, I smile over at her and pretend to look up toward the subway’s worn metal roof in recollection.

“Umm, once when I dragged your ass out of bed.
Then again when I literally had to tie your sneakers for you. And a third time when a tiny tear rolled down your cheek as you realized that today we have to run an extra mile to make up for last week.”

Naomi has quite the flare for the dramatic. I secretly think she has to act so normal at her accounting job that she bottles up all of her craziness and unloads it all at once as soon as we’re together.

My sassy list makes her crack a smile though, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me toward her for a side hug.

“I think that should
suffice then,” she quips happily, apparently done with her pity party for now.

“I should just let you get fat,” I tease, leaving my head against her shoulder.

“Impossible. My mother’s English and my father’s Swiss and Nigerian. Due to my lack of fatass American genes, I will have this killer bod until the day I die.”

I shake my head because sadly, I know she’s right. Naomi is sickeningly gorgeous. Her lightly tanned skin and warm, brown eyes are the kind that every girl covets.

“Leave it up to the Swiss to produce a baby as cute as you,” I tease, pinching her cheek.

She shoots me a playful glare and I sigh, happy to be in this element with her.
Naomi makes me feel light, like nothing bad has every happened or will ever happen. I soak up her happiness like a sponge, hoping it’ll fuel me long after we’ve separated for the day.

We sit in silence for a few minutes as she checks her phone and twists a finger through her glossy ponytail. As we get closer to Central Park, the subway steadily fills and once again, I find myself daydreaming out of the
square window. The memory of Mrs. Jenkins’ cinnamon swirl cake from earlier almost puts a smile on my face, but then I remember what was waiting for me in my mail this morning. On the very top of the stack of bills and junk, lay a thick, eggshell white envelope engraved with my mother’s initials in swirly calligraphy.

I guess I’d lost track of time. U
sually I expect her “quarterly check-ins” a few days in advance, but her letter had caught me off guard this morning. Her notes wouldn’t come at all, except for the fact that I caved two years ago and told her my address. She wouldn’t stop hounding me and even threatened to call the police and place a missing persons report, so I thought it’d be easier just to cave. However, each time one of her monogrammed letters arrives, I regret that decision all over again.

The cops would have been a nice change of pace to be honest.

With unsteady hands I tore the envelope open and peeked in to see her standard stationery tucked in front of a check made out to my name. I didn’t even glance at the amount. I walked back into my apartment, pulled the battered memory box from my closet, and placed the letter and check behind all of the others.

Nice talking to you mother, do visit again soon.

“So, do you want to tell me more about Photographer Boy?” Naomi asks, breaking me out of my mother-filled reverie.

My heart instantly leaps at the memory of Jude.
I don’t look at her right away for fear that she’ll see my emotions written across my face. The memory of his touch makes my body instantly feel warm and I know Naomi will see the flush on my cheeks. My eyes stay glued to the tunnel walls as they whip by my window.

“Not really, no,
” I mutter, barely loud enough for her to hear me over the rumbling of the subways tracks.

She knows bet
ter than to push me, but she’s still probably upset that I’ve closed the subject off so suddenly. I’d texted her yesterday, during a break in the shoot, to give her quick details about Jude, but when he left abruptly I changed my mind about discussing him with her.

“Alright. But for the record, he sounded seriously hot.”

I don’t respond because there’s nothing to say other than you have no idea. 

The subway screeches to a stop and more New Yorkers file into the confined space. A
n elderly Latino woman sinks into the seat in front of us, clutching her oversized purse on top of her feeble lap. I focus on her, studying the colorful pattern on her bag and the beautiful mix of charcoal and ashen tones in her hair. She’s a nice distraction from Naomi’s prudent stare that I feel burning a hole into the side of my face.

When I’m silent for another minute, Naomi
finally nudges my shoulder. “I forgot to tell you that my friend from work is playing a soccer game in Central Park today. I told him we’d run by and say hello if we got the chance.”

I don’t really feel like meeting her friends.
It doesn’t matter though. I already closed up the option of discussing Jude and saying no to chatting with her friend would hurt her feelings.

So I plaster on a simple smile and turn toward her.

“Sounds good. Have I met him before?”

“Nope. He works in a different department and we only met last week during one of our company-wide meetings. His name’s Bennett.”

I mull over the name, trying to recall if I knew any Bennett’s growing up, but no one comes to mind. “Sounds cute,” I confer. “Is he a friend-friend? Or a friend-soontobedatingfriend?”

Her lips curl into a private smile and her honey-brown eyes stay pinned to her leggings. Even without a reply, it’s obvious
she’s excited about potentially running into him.

“Good, at least one of us is going to get some,” I wink as the subway pulls up to our stop.

…

“He said th
ey’re on the Great Lawn near 85th street,” Naomi declares between shallow breaths as we stop for water.

I brush
away the drop of sweat trickling down my forehead with the back of my hand. “Sounds good. Let’s take the outer loop and we’ll cut across to the lawn.”

She nods
in agreement and pulls the plastic water bottle from her mouth, but then she hesitates. Her shoulders slump and her dark brows furrow in thought.

“Am I an idiot for agreeing to meet up with him after I’ve gone running?” she asks. It’s rare to see the vulnerable side of Naomi and I never quite know how to approach it.

“Why? You look athletic and glowing!” I assure her, and she does actually. The whore.

“
I don’t believe you,” she huffs as we start to jog again. We pull out onto the trail behind a group of mom’s pushing strollers and running full speed as if they’re competing in a marathon.
Only in New York
.

“You look double skinny, like dehydrated-chic,” I try to tell her with a straight face, but then we both crumble into hysterical laughter.

All joking aside, I can count on one hand the number of insecure moments Naomi has had in the four years we’ve been best friends.

“Naomi. Do you honestly think I would let you meet this guy if you looked anything but gorgeous right now? Hasn’t it been proven that men like the smell of women after they’ve worked out? Something about the pheromones.” She’s smiling by this point, so I know I’ve got her hooked.

“I’m pretty sure men like women if they have the correct hip to waist ratio for making babies.” She drawls out her speech, as if saying the word “babies” like an old burly man would. We both burst out laughing one again as we run and I have to grip my side as a sharp cramp forms. Why do I think trying to run with her is a good idea?

I sigh,
“God… Why does that sound so gross to me?”

“Because it’s weird. If I remember correctly from freshman p
sych, we like men when they smell like they’ve worked out because we know they can take care of us… evolutionarily speaking. It’s like survival of the fuck-ablest,” she adds with a wink.

Just then, an overly tanned,
muscley man straight off the Jersey Shore runs by in a bright neon green track suit. I glance over toward Naomi the second he’s out of earshot.

“Oh,
yeah. I bet he could take care of me. He looks like an alpha hunter-gatherer for sure…” I raise my eyebrows suggestively and we both erupt in another fit of giggles.

“Don’t even go there.”

Not even in my dry spell would I go for a man like that. Wait— can you call it a dry spell when you haven’t had sex in three years? More like the freaking Dust Bowl.

The Great L
awn is gorgeous. It’s what most people imagine when they think of Central Park. A multitude of trails wind throughout the park, but the Great Lawn is an undivided, sprawling space with fresh, soft grass, rimmed with maple and pine trees.

Today it’s even more magical than usual because the seasons are
changing; the air has been doused with a crisp chill, leaving the sweltering heat of July and August in our distant memories.

Fall in New York is a sight to behold. The
city’s trees transform from dark green to bright hues of copper and gold. Then practically overnight their leaves drop to the ground in heavy piles. I love hearing the sharp crunch beneath my shoes as we tread over the fallen leaves that dot the trail like red tears.

Naomi and I wa
nder around, cooling off from our run while trying to spy her friend. People are spread out everywhere and I assume it has to do with the temperature. I can’t imagine anyone staying indoors on a day like this. Families are having picnics and groups are spread out, playing Frisbee and baseball. I take in a cluster of middle-aged men dressed in matching raglan shirts that sport their names printed boldly on the back.

“He said he’s with a group of ten guys,” Naomi offers as she scans the crowd. We weave through a
line of children jumping rope and then round a little row of pine trees. When we step to the other side, Naomi freezes in her tracks and I feel her nerves practically crackle through the air. Her brown eyes are wide and she’s staring straight ahead as if she sees a ghost. I slowly follow her gaze and lock onto the most beautiful sight I have ever seen.

“If we get to choose, I definitely want this to be my heaven,” I quip as I take in the group.

Ten guys are spread out in the clearing. Not a single one of them is wearing a shirt, and even from a distance I can see the sweat dripping down their bodies. This is not your run-of-the-mill soccer team. No, these guys look as if they’ve just stepped off the pages of Sports Illustrated. David Beckham, eat your heart out, literally.

“Please, dear God
, tell me that is Bennett’s group,” I implore dreamily, pulling my gaze from the men.

Naomi still looks like a deer caught in headlights and I’m glad we’re far away. It’s clearly the right group
, but if we wandered over now, she would make a complete fool of herself. I whip myself in front of her and put my hands on her shoulders, gripping them gently.