7. Macey
MACEY
The Burrow Bitches
Britney: hey remember that one time someone invited me to go to aruba?
Kira: No.
Ariadne: That never happened.
Britney: i was just thinking, i could be macey’s plus one…
Macey: That’s not how it works. Also, shouldn’t you be studying?
Britney: if i don’t know the material by now, i never will
Not even a brisk Chicago morning could stop me from a good photography session.
Clear skies. Trees in bloom. Open view of the horizon.
Today’s golden hour was prime for a sunrise photoshoot.
I flipped through the photos I took with my Canon, mentally noting my favorite pictures and deleting the amateur-looking ones.
My tripod and coffee cup sat on the crushed limestone next to me. A yawn escaped my jaw as I chugged the rest of the coffee. I could almost feel the caffeine swimming through my veins.
Yes, I was aware that wasn’t how caffeine worked. No, I couldn’t be bothered to research how caffeine impacted our brains.
Coffee gave me something to look forward to on these god-awful early mornings. Not that I had anyone to blame but myself. It was my choice to practice my photography skills and expand my portfolio while most sane people were asleep.
Aruba was only a few days away, and I had written a shot list. At the top?
Sunrises and sunsets. I could picture it now—a beautiful beach-front resort with a pink-and-red sky backdrop.
The most unrealistic part of that dream wasn’t the pictures themselves.
It was the fact that Victoria wouldn’t take a second glance at them.
Truthfully, I was a little in over my head here. I’d attended multiple press events and covered hotel openings before but never one with this much luxury. Never an international press event. And never one with so many big names on the guest list. Like Noah.
This was out of my comfort zone. Britney intervened last night, lending me a few outfits to pack. Fake it , she had whispered as she handed me a short red dress with more cleavage than I was used to showing.
Faking it, I could do. Just ask my ex-boyfriend.
A rustle in the trees down the trail had me throwing my tripod to the side of the road. The Lakefront Trail attracted runners and cyclists alike, either of whom might run over it. A good tripod cost more than an I’m so sorry, here, have an energy bar .
Still, I held the camera up to my eye once more.
Maybe I needed to get my eyes checked because it almost looked like the waves of toffee hair on the runner around the corner were Noah’s.
My finger fluttered over the trigger, tempted to capture the moment.
His features were always lighter than the clothes he wore.
Gray hoodie. Black pants. Large headphones that covered his ears.
I couldn’t decide if he looked more like a runner mid-race or a bank robber.
Nah, I’d glanced at the inside of Noah’s apartment. He had no need to rob a bank.
Note to self: don’t let Noah see the inside of my apartment. Or rather, the thrifted couches and second-hand art that hung in my room.
As he turned the corner, I made the snap decision to take the picture. The top of his hoodie was peppered with beads of sweat, and his eyebrows lifted when he saw me behind the camera.
Okay, I definitely needed to get my eyes checked because I couldn’t help the way I slowly drank in the image of him. My eyes caught on definitive parts of him. Tan skin. The white-and-black ankle socks. The softness of his eyes despite the smirk on his face.
“First my apartment, now my trail?” Noah slowed down, then paused in front of where I sat on the ground, dressed in an old University of Illinois Chicago sweatshirt and yoga pants.
Not exactly the picture of an elegant Aruba tourist. My ass was already damp with morning dew, and I shifted uncomfortably. “You stalking me, Macey?”
I scoffed. “Why would I do that? You post more online than I want to know.”
“So Internet stalking has turned into real-life stalking?” His tone was a familiar teasing, but there was a new faint sparkle in his eyes, a warmth that matched the rising sun.
Noah glanced behind me, where the early rays of the sun pierced the horizon. The shimmering expanse of a lake on one side and the lush greenery of the parks on the other flanked us.
Subtly, I removed the lens from the camera and returned it to its case. A frown tugged at my lips, but I focused on my task.
I wasn’t sure what Noah and I were currently.
Definitely not stalker and target. Rivals?
Acquaintances that you wave to in passing on the street?
He allowed me to crash dinner with his sister last week and wouldn’t let me chip in to pay the bill.
I supposed wherever we stood now was better than arguing with each other in line for a taxi.
“No, let me guess.” He lifted a finger to his mouth in contemplation. “You work for the paparazzi on the weekends.”
The zipper to my camera bag almost tore under my hand. “Bold of you to assume I’d spend my free days photographing you.”
He laughed, but his eyes were pensive. Watching me carefully. “Why don’t you show me your camera roll, then?”
My pulse flickered. As I tried to get it under control, I folded the tripod. “Maybe I’m trying to help you.” Damn it, this piece of metal never bent to my will. “Your pictures aren’t very good.”
Noah reached for the tripod, and without a second thought, I handed it to him. “Not sure if I’d agree with that. They get plenty of likes and saves.”
I didn’t want to think about who was saving his shirtless selfies.
The metal of my tripod bent under Noah’s hands like it was water tipping out of a kettle. Well, I loosened it for him.
“That’s due to the subject, not the technical quality,” I grumbled as I accepted the folded tripod.
Whatever I expected in retaliation from Noah, it wasn’t silence. Once the contents of my bag were packed, I stood to his level. Well, as close to his level as I could get considering he was a head taller than me .
From this angle, the lake surface next to us was like glass, reflecting the pastel colors of dawn—soft pinks, purples, and oranges.
That same soft pink covered the top of Noah’s ears.
Was Noah…flustered? I would have thought that a half-hearted compliment would be a drop in the sea of praise he received each day.
Instead of latching onto my words, he breezed over them entirely. He took a step forward, his left ankle shaking as he did. A flash of pain bolted across his face as he exhaled.
“Noah, what’s wrong with your ankle?”
“Nothing,” he grunted. “I just need to run home and put some ice on it.”
I gently pushed at his shoulders, ushering him to the bench on the side of the trail. “Running is the last thing you should be doing. Especially on hard terrain like this.” When he relented and sat down, I squatted in front of him. “Let me look.”
“What?” He moved his ankle out of my reach and asked hesitantly, “Why?”
“Because you’re in pain.”
“It’s not that bad.”
In lieu of a response, I poked his ankle. He hissed a breath between his teeth, eyes fluttering shut.
“Did you hurt it during another fight?”
I wasn’t the only person Noah had gone viral for fighting with, though I’d only seen a few quick clips of the famous fight he had last year with a food blogger.
He stayed unnervingly still as I wrapped my hand around his ankle and lifted it carefully to examine. I could have sworn he wasn’t even breathing—until he broke the silence with, “No. I’ve only been in one fight. It just looks like a million, thanks to the magic of online editing. ”
I raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a smirk. “Well, at least you won.”
Noah gave a half-hearted shrug. “I guess. But the stuff people said about it was bullshit. Everyone made it sound like I was some kind of scary wild animal.”
“I wonder why they would say that.” I chuckled.
He rolled his eyes, then rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I did throw a few punches, okay? But it wasn’t for the reasons people thought.
A food blogger was running his mouth about this guy Kenny, a genuine dude who was trying to get into food influencing.
And this jerk called Kenny a ‘fat wannabe’ and said he’d never make it in the industry. So yeah, I lost it a little.”
I blinked, surprised by the turn of events. “Wait—so you weren’t the bad guy?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” he said. “I was just defending Kenny’s honor.”
“Why didn’t you tell people that?”
“It’s hard to sell the bad boy angle when the truth is you were sticking up for a shy guy,” Noah said, a wry grin pulling at his lips.
“On the contrary, I think that makes you seem pretty badass.”
I focused on my task. The back of his ankle was swollen along the Achilles tendon. I wasn’t an expert on injuries, but I knew enough to understand Noah shouldn’t be running on this.
One thing I was an expert on? Shoes. Specifically, good running shoes.
The sneaker had seen better days. The once-bright fabric was now a dull, weathered shade, scuffed and stained with remnants of past runs. The sole had been worn down to an uneven, threadbare state. Tread? Nonexistent. Laces? Frayed. How was Noah running with these? I didn’t know .
“You need new shoes.”
Noah placed his elbows on his thighs, looking down at me. It suddenly occurred to me how intimate the position could look to a stranger—Noah on the bench, me on my knees in front of him. I rolled to the side, reaching for my bag.
“These are Nikes,” he said.
I laughed as my hand blindly searched the bottom layer of my bag. Pretty sure there was a corner of crushed Cheez-Its and peanuts in there. Gross. “Obviously. But they’re worn out. They’re not giving you any kind of support anymore.”
“And you’re a Nike expert because…?”
“Because I worked in a running shoe store for two years.”
My first job, actually. Not to mention, I’d been running since I was sixteen.