26. Daisy
26
Daisy
I ’m holding my breath as I let myself into Weston’s house after work. I didn’t see his Audi out on the street, so I already know he’s not home, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping.
But the sound of the heavy oak door closing echoes through the empty house, and I release a long breath, turning for the basement. Technically, I’m not here to see Wes, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t secretly wishing we’d cross paths.
After last night, I’m not entirely sure where I stand with him. I haven’t stopped thinking about what happened in my room. Somehow, he made all my inhibitions disappear, made me do something I never imagined I’d do in front of someone else. The way he spoke to me, the dirty words he used, the way he lost control and let me watch him too… Honestly, I didn’t know he had that in him. He’s always been so sweet and respectful toward me, so careful how he behaves, but that was something else. My body shivers as I replay what he did. If I thought I wanted him before, that was nothing.
And right when I thought he was finally going to give it to me, he left. If I hadn’t asked him to join me in the tub, I’m pretty sure he would have left sooner. It was like he couldn’t wait to get out of there.
I sigh as I step into the darkroom and drop my bag, pulling out the roll of film I shot yesterday. Flicking on the safety light and making sure the door is firmly closed, I set about developing the film, my mind trying to make sense of the events of the past few days.
Today was my first shift at Joe’s since Wes and I… I don’t even know what to call it. Got together? Hooked up? When I told him I wanted everything with him, he said he wanted that too, and yet it’s almost feeling like after that first night together in his kitchen, he’s pulled away. Yes, he came to dinner at my place last night, but he would barely touch me. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed watching him touch himself, but that’s not what I wanted. What I wanted was him , close to me. Inside me. I wanted to make love to him.
I still want that, but does he feel the same?
Confusion swirls through me as I sort the film negatives and decide which print to make first. Because yes, he kept his distance and left quickly, but the way he held me in the bathtub… My heart quickens as I remember his hands, so soft on my waist, stroking my skin in the water. The way he tenderly kissed my ear and pulled me into his chest. It felt so intimate, like the way you’d hold someone you loved dearly. Someone you cared for more than anything.
I shake my head as I expose my first print and place it into the tray of developer, because if he felt that way, why would he bolt the minute we got out of the tub? Why would he say something vague like, “I’ll text you,” then not do it?
And why didn’t he come into work today? He kept his distance before, but it’s different now. Why not come into Joe’s this morning like he used to? Wouldn’t he want to see me?
Because I want to see him. Fuck, do I ever. He’s all I’ve thought about since… well, if I’m being honest, quite a while now.
I move the print through the trays of liquid required to expose the image, then hang it above the bathtub before choosing the next image to expose. I try to focus as I go through the process of developing more images, but it’s hard with my mind wandering to Wes, to what he could be thinking. I was so excited when he first said he wanted me, when it looked like things were moving forward with us, but after last night, I’m not sure.
Well, I’m sure of one thing. Despite his mixed signals, I’m falling hard for him. Hell, I fell for him the minute he showed me this darkroom, only I couldn’t admit it to myself. Yet after he held me close in the tub last night there was no denying my heart anymore. I’m falling hard and fast for him, and I don’t even know how he feels about me.
It’s fucking terrifying.
I step back from the row of pictures I’ve developed, looking at them hanging over the tub. For a moment I forget about Wes, as the thrill of looking at what I’ve created rushes through me. I’ve captured some beautiful architectural details of the West Village, like the shots I took of Brooklyn Heights. I don’t know what I’ll do with them, but just looking at them makes me happy. Just being in this room makes me happy.
With a satisfied smile, I step out of the darkroom and stretch my neck. Even with the ventilation in there, the chemical smell can become too much after a while. I wander to the sliding glass doors that lead out to the manicured backyard, blinking as I step outside into the early evening light. Sucking in a lungful of fresh air, I tell myself not to think about Wes. Even if this thing with him doesn’t work out, at least I’m back to doing my photography. I’m back in the darkroom. I’ll be forever grateful to him for that.
“Fucking fuck fuck,” I hear a familiar female voice mutter from the other side of the fence.
Violet.
I chuckle as I drag one of Weston’s outdoor chairs across the yard and climb up to peer over.
“You okay?” I ask, glancing down at Violet. She’s on her knees in the dirt, doing something to a rosebush, and glances up in surprise.
“Oh shit, sorry.” She rises to her feet, wiping the back of her hand across her forehead, pushing her blond hair back from her face. “I’m fine. Just cut my hand on a thorn.” She cocks her head to the side, eying me curiously. “What are you doing over there?”
“I was using the darkroom.” I smile, thinking of the first time she realized the darkroom was for me, then took me to see the carriage houses for inspiration. “Actually, wait there for a sec. I want to give you something.”
I pop back into the darkroom and shuffle through my stack of prints, choosing my favorites of Brooklyn Heights. Then I head back outside and lean over the fence again, holding out the pictures. Violet pulls a stepladder over, climbing to meet me face to face.
“What are these?”
“Just a few shots from around the neighborhood, to say thanks. I know how much you love the history of this area, and ever since you took me to shoot the carriage houses, I’ve found my inspiration to explore the historical architecture of the city.”
Violet gazes at the images, her lips parted in awe. “Daisy, these are gorgeous. You’ve captured such beautiful details.” Her eyes are wide as she glances up at me. “Are you sure I can keep these? You should sell them.”
A laugh escapes me. “Of course! They’re not that good. They’re just—”
“No, they’re that good,” Violet interjects, serious. “I’m going to frame these and put them in our living room. I love them.”
My heart glows at her kind words. “Really?”
“Really.” She nods vigorously, studying the images again. Then her gaze flicks to mine, lit with excitement. “Would you shoot me and Kyle?”
My brows tug together in confusion. “What?”
“I’ve always wanted to get portraits of us done but never made the time. And now that we’re engaged, it’s the perfect opportunity.”
I hesitate. It was one thing to shoot images of a few old buildings, but to shoot my friends? For their engagement? What if I don’t get it right?
“Please?” Violet presses. “We could do it around Brooklyn Heights, so you’d get us in the setting of the neighborhood. It would mean so much to me.”
I swallow, studying my hands, because as nervous as it makes me to think about photographing them, there’s no way I can say no to that.
“Okay,” I say at last. I glance up uncertainly. “But I’m not a professional photographer, so they might not—”
“You will be once we pay you.” She grins, bouncing on her toes. The stepladder wobbles beneath her, and she grips the fence, laughing.
“You can’t pay me,” I say, panic swooping through me. “I’d never accept—”
“Of course we can. And we will. It’ll be great.” She glances down at her hand, her brow furrowing. “Shit, this is bleeding. I’d better take care of it before Kyle comes home and realizes I wasn’t using gloves.” Her eyes lift to the heavens in a dramatic show of exasperation, but her mouth is still fixed in a smile. She waves the photos as she carefully steps from the ladder. “Thanks so much for these. I can’t wait to find a place for them. I’ll be in touch soon to set up the shoot, okay?”
I nod meekly as she heads into the house. At least she has faith in me, because I’m not sure I have what it takes to pull off her vision.
Still, there’s no harm in giving it a go, I tell myself firmly, as I climb down and pull Weston’s chair back into place. I won’t take their money, obviously, and if it doesn’t turn out how she hopes, I guess all we’ve wasted is a few hours, and then she can find a legitimate photographer to do it properly.
I’m nervous all the same as I head back into the darkroom to begin my next round of photos. I look back at the handful of images I took of Weston at Sullivan’s Cove, and I have to admit they’re not bad. They’re candid, and the hasty way in which I took them is obvious by the poor composition, but they capture his excitement in that moment. It’s palpable. I stare at the image of him, remembering how genuinely thrilled he was for me when I picked up the camera again, how much he cared about something that to him was probably trivial, but to me was monumental.
And as I set about developing another image, I try to tell myself that things will work out with him—that they have to.
I only hope it’s true.