Chapter 38
It feels like several months, not two weeks, have passed since I last entered the lecture hall.
Paul isn’t here yet, and I’m relieved. But I’m anxious—and terrified—to see him.
What will he do when he sees me? Nothing?
Or a noticeable something—a dismissal, or a distant, friendly acknowledgment?
Walking to my seat, I note my classmates’ interested glances—and then Charlie’s friendly smile and wave.
It helps, to see Charlie. I exhale and sit down, farther back than I usually do. I wait tensely for Paul.
It was hard convincing Tom that I needed to resume this sliver of my routine, that the days at home since the false Rosie incident had begun to make me hopelessly claustrophobic.
When he agreed—on the condition that he would drive me here and pick me up—I felt triumphant.
Euphoric. Back to Paul’s class. A burst of activity to light the current gloom.
But I hadn’t dwelled on what it would actually be like.
How I would hear my classmates whispering and feel the weight of their gazes returning me to that tense gallery scene, when Paul and I argued, when I fled.
I keep my eyes trained forward, reaching for the envelope of prints I’ve brought.
So foolish, to bring them at all. To think Paul will want to see anything of mine anymore—and to have gone back into the darkroom in the first place.
But they tugged at me, those undeveloped film rolls from the city.
I kept seeing flashes of the images I’d captured; I knew they would print well.
They deserved to be processed and printed.
It would be a crime, I told myself, channeling Paul, to neglect them.
So I blocked out the bad, the very bad, from the day in the city and spent a mostly blissful time in the darkroom.
Later, when I saw the familiar figure marring the background of every self-portrait, it made me hurt, but I cropped it out and told myself the result would be well worth the biting discomfort.
The result of having finished pictures in hand, of course, but the result of having Paul see them and extol their virtues, too. If I could bring myself to show him.
Sitting here in class with the envelope shivering in my hand, I doubt I can do it. I can make an excuse, tell him I haven’t had time.
But why should I even expect his interest, after all that’s passed between us?
Paul finally walks through the door, an uncharacteristic five minutes late.
He seems frazzled, unprepared. As if he didn’t mean to walk into the room, didn’t mean to stand under these stark lights, blinking up at us.
Despite everything that’s happened, the sight of him thrills me.
I forgive him at once for saying a fucking waste, for making me feel small.
He said it in the heat of the moment; I shouldn’t have run away like a frightened child.
I clutch my envelope now and think I really might do it: go down after class and try to show him. But what if he shrugs and turns away?
When Paul finally spots me, I can see he’s both regretful and relieved. He’s noticed my absence and hates that he might have caused it. I see it all in his eyes. Paul forgives me and I forgive Paul, I think. I will show him my pictures.