Jenny
T his is it. The start of my new life. And if you’d asked me two weeks ago what it’s like to be a photographer, my guess would have included a well lit studio with black drapes. Maybe a tripod or a green screen, or those upside down umbrella thingies that bounce the light.
You know. That stuff.
But after two weeks of living with Lincoln, I know better—for instance, that photographers come in different flavors, and my roommate is the wild, free form kind. The type who strikes out across the globe with a battered passport and a camera, and who only comes home to do a load of laundry and book the next flight.
Figures.
Because Lincoln is not shy or neat. He’s not orderly or controlled. He’s a tattooed wild man with scruffy jeans and a scruffier jaw; even when he’s doing something nondescript like washing dishes or sitting on the sofa, he crackles with restless energy.
It makes sense that his work pushes boundaries. That he’s a rising star.
I mean… how could anyone not be drawn to him?
Frankly, I’m surprised he’s stayed here this long. Pretty much the moment he moved in, I started counting down the days until he’ll surely go, and to my surprise, I’m not looking forward to it.
I get this hollow feeling in my chest whenever I think about Lincoln leaving. This sharp pain, radiating under my rib cage.
Weird.
“You got indigestion?”
I snatch my hand away where I’ve been rubbing my chest, mindlessly soothing the ache as I think about Lincoln’s inevitable departure. He’s shooting glances at me now, setting up his tripod on a patch of cracked concrete.
“Nope.” I squint at the view that Lincoln wants to capture. We’re in a fairground in the early evening, the lights of the rides glowing gold. Tinny music plays on a loop, and the air smells like roasting nuts and hot dogs. Visitors wander from stall to stall, tossing rings and firing pellet guns at balloons. “So people really pay you for photos like this?”
My roommate snorts, fixing his camera to the tripod. “Don’t hold back, . Tell me how you really feel.”
Heat burns over my cheeks, and I realize too late what I said. How it sounded. God, I’ve always been awkward, but I’ve never resented it this much before.
I don’t want to insult Lincoln. I don’t want our wires to get crossed. I like him and admire him so, so much, and half the time, it sounds like I’m telling him off for something.
“I didn’t mean… it’s not what I expected, that’s all.” Nerves writhe in my belly, but Lincoln’s not mad. When he throws me a smirk, his gray eyes are warm.
“People hire photographers for different kinds of jobs, right? Some want head shots or wedding photos or pictures of their dogs dressed in human clothes. And some want artistic shoots, as though they’re commissioning a painting.”
Okay. I think I follow.
“And someone commissioned you to take photos of this fairground,” I say slowly, because that part still doesn’t make much sense to me.
There’s a flash of white teeth. Lincoln leans over the camera, twisting the lens to refocus, and I watch the muscles in his strong back shift under his black t-shirt.
Even as night falls, he’s not wearing a jacket. The man’s impervious to cold. Would he feel hot if I laid my palm against his bare chest?
“The series is about the city. But, you know. This fairground has been here for nearly forty years. It’s part of the landscape now; there are local legends about it. Teenagers come here on their first dates, and one of the city’s best chefs started with a food truck here. It’s about trying to capture the spirit of a place, see?”
I do see.
It’s enthralling. He’s enthralling.
And so far, I’ve barely freaked out about leaving the apartment at all.
The wind picks up, gusting leaf litter around our feet, and I tug my sweater sleeves down to cover my fingers. I’m wearing black today, trying out my Lincoln persona. Being bold. Finding my courage.
My boots thump against the concrete as I stroll closer. The scent of wood smoke drifts past, like someone’s having a bonfire nearby. Lincoln doesn’t look up from his camera, but he shuffles to the side, making space for me.
“Here.” He straightens and a warm palm spreads between my shoulder blades, urging me to bend down and peer through the viewfinder. I do as he says, gnawing on my bottom lip and trying hard not to fixate on how it feels when my gorgeous roommate bends me over.
Get a grip, .
“Do you see it? The way it’s framed? The way the light—”
“Uh-huh.” His palm is still a warm weight on my back, and god, I’m too hot suddenly despite the chill air. I’m flushed and sweaty under my clothes, and my words sound hoarse. “Yeah, I see it.”
That hand lifts away, and my back shudders as the night air rushes in. The light’s going fast, stars prickling into life overhead, but Lincoln nudges me gently out of the way and snaps a few more photos.
We’ve been at this all day. First the governmental buildings and the grand city parks. Then a flea market and the subway platforms. Lincoln’s city series is a study in contrasts, and he works harder than I ever realized. We’ve barely sat down all day.
My feet ache inside my boots. I’m shivering from the cold, and my belly keeps rumbling.
But I’m out , out in the world, and it doesn’t matter where he takes me in the city—as long as I’m with Lincoln, I feel completely safe.
“You’re doing so well,” he says suddenly, like he heard my thoughts, and I flush with pleasure, wrapping my arms around my waist while I wait for him to finish.
Okay, maybe it wouldn’t seem bold to your average person. But I’ve barely left that apartment for over a year, and when I do, it’s like I’m racing against the clock to get back to safety. Back inside.
When was the last time I stood under a night sky? When was the last time I walked through a crowd? Man, I’d forgotten how good hot dogs smell.
My stomach growls again, louder than ever, and Lincoln grins, plucking his camera off the tripod.
“Alright, I hear ya, sweetheart. I’m calling it. Let’s get you fed.”
* * *
“The last trip was the Sahara. You know about that one.” Lincoln dabs a napkin against the corner of his mouth as he talks, a hot dog held aloft in his other hand. “Before that, the salt flats in Bolivia for a travel magazine, and before that , I documented this crazy ultra-marathon that people do through the rainforest.”
There was no mustard on his mouth. He was fine.
I know, because I can’t stop staring at his lips.
Can you blame me? Lincoln has this surprisingly sensual mouth. You see his tattoos and his scruffy jaw and flinty gray eyes, and your brain fills in the gaps—assumes his mouth will be a hard, unforgiving slash with thin lips. But when you look, really look, his bottom lip is all plump and delicious-looking. Taunting me. Tempting me.
His mouth curves up as he smiles. “?”
“Huh?” I take a massive bite of hot dog, eyes wide, and god, I can feel the guilt splashed over my face. I shouldn’t be staring at him like that. He’s my roommate. Off limits.
I can’t freak him out and make him leave sooner than planned. I’m already gonna miss him so much once he’s gone.
“I asked about the last trip you took.” Lincoln shakes his head, grinning, then reaches forward and wipes a dab of mustard off my cheek. He licks his thumb clean, and I nearly pass out. All around us, fairground-goers huddle around picnic benches, swigging beers and feasting on white trays of wonder from the food trucks, and not a single one of them has noticed that I’m losing my damn mind over here.
Not because I’m out of the apartment. Sitting in a crowd under a night sky.
Because Lincoln touched me, he brushed my cheek then licked his thumb, and maybe if I had an ounce of real dating experience I wouldn’t find that so freaking erotic.
“Um.” My brain is sluggish. Overwhelmed by the bright lights and loud noises and press of the crowd, but most of all by the man sitting opposite me. “I went to a famous fabric store on the coast last year. They have all these unique designs and their own factory, and some of their stuff is handmade too but it’s super expensive…”
I trail off, heart sinking.
It’s no Sahara, that’s for sure.
But: “Go on,” Lincoln urges, leaning closer. The picnic bench creaks under his weight, and no, I will not think about how his muscled bulk would feel pressing down on top of me. Definitely not. “Tell me about it, sweetheart.”
That’s the other thing. Sweetheart. Lincoln probably calls loads of girls that, probably doesn’t mean anything by it at all, but my heart flutters like crazy every time he says it to me.
“I took the train,” I say weakly. “And I stayed in a haunted motel.”
Lincoln grins. “On purpose?”
“ No .” His dark chuckle vibrates all the way down to my bones. I squeeze the edge of the picnic table, cheeks aching from smiling so much. “As if.”
That trip was such a big deal to me at the time. It’s still such a big deal. I saved up for months so I could go, and even then I had to really force myself onto the train. My heart raced so fast, and my palms were all sweaty, and I thought for sure I was gonna be sick.
I did it, though. I went.
Just like I spent the whole day out today.
“Thank you,” I blurt, gazing into warm gray eyes. They crinkle as Lincoln smiles at me. “Thank you so much for this. For bringing me with you today. It means everything to me.”
There’s a pause before my roommate answers, and in that time, it’s like the air changes between us. Becomes charged, crackling with electricity.
The wind feels warmer. Lincoln’s still staring, pinning me with his eyes, doing that frowny-smile thing.
His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “You’re welcome, . You know I’d do anything for you.”
Whew . I swipe his half drunk beer bottle and take a long swig, too frazzled to meet his eyes anymore, and Lincoln laughs so loud that people glance over. The bottle thunks against the picnic table, foam fizzing up the inside of the glass.
“You can finish that.”
I shake my head, staring blindly at the nearest ride. My thoughts are already muddled enough.
“Okay.” Lincoln raps on the cracked wood. “Home?”
Home.
Yeah.
The thing is… I’m already home whenever I’m around him.