Chapter 46
Chapter forty-six
Sam
The bell chimes when I push the door open.
The framing shop is narrow—maybe twelve feet wide—with moldings lining the walls floor to ceiling. Mat boards stacked in tall vertical bins along one wall. A scarred wooden worktable sits in the middle.
The framer looks up from whatever he's working on. Late sixties, tape measure clipped to his belt, glasses low on his nose. He sets down his tools and gestures toward the table.
"Let's see them."
Tom pulls a small photo from an envelope. Four by six. Tucked carefully inside.
I frown before I can stop myself. "Tom, your work is beautiful. You should print it bigger. Show it off."
He looks at me, expression calm. "Not this one."
I tilt my head, curious, but he doesn't elaborate. Just hands the photo to the framer.
The framer looks at it. Studies it for a long second, lifting it slightly closer to the light. Then he looks up at me, the corner of his mouth shifting just slightly.
"This you?"
I blink. "What?"
I walk around the table. Look down at the photo in his hands.
My ribs go tight.
It's me. At the ocean. That day at the gala weekend. The light, the water, my face completely open. Unguarded in a way I didn't know I could be.
And this is the one he brought.
"Tom..."
He meets my eyes.
"I told you. It's my favorite."
I can't look away. Can't find words that don't feel too small or too big.
So I just nod and pull my own photo from my bag.
I lay it on the worktable carefully, smoothing one corner flat where it curled slightly in transit.
Tom looks down. Recognizes it immediately.
"The northwest corner," he says. "First session."
I nod. Meet his eyes.
"This is when I fell in love with your photography."
Tom goes completely still. His fingers rest on the edge of a mat sample, but he doesn't move. Doesn't speak.
I keep going, quieter now.
"I knew the view was there. But I couldn't see it until you showed me."
The framer shifts his weight behind the table but doesn't interrupt.
"I knew then, no matter how crazy you made me, you were the only photographer I wanted to work with."
I pause, let a small smile pull at my mouth. "Turns out you're also the only person I want to drive me crazy too."
Tom's jaw shifts. He still doesn't say anything, but something in his expression softens just slightly at the edges.
The framer clears his throat and slides both photos back across the table toward us.
"Let's frame them."
We lean over the worktable together, shoulder to shoulder. The table isn't wide enough for distance. When Tom shifts his weight to look at the mat corners the framer lays out, his shoulder presses lightly into mine. I don't move away.
The framer pulls sample moldings from the wall, lays them against each print without comment. He places mat corners—cream, bone, slate—against the images, steps back, watches us evaluate.
Tom steadies one corner automatically, his fingers brushing mine where the walnut meets at the edge. We're both holding it, both looking down at the grain running diagonal across the wood.
"Too dark," I say. "It eats the sky in yours."
Tom tilts his head, considers. "You're right."
I set it back on the pile and reach for lighter oak.
I run my hand along the sample. The grain is smooth, warm-toned without being heavy. I set it down, try a lighter ash.
"I want something warm," I say finally. "This one."
I tap the oak.
The framer nods once. "Good choice. Doesn't compete with the image."
Tom's still studying his options. He picks up a simple wood frame, clean lines, minimal profile. Holds it up to the light, checking the finish.
"This one," he says.
The framer takes both frames, sets them aside. Then he leans forward slightly, tapping the edge of my print.
"You want to float these or mat them?"
Tom answers before I can. "Mat."
The framer nods. "Will these get direct light?"
"No."
"Couple of days. I'll text when they're ready."
He wraps both prints carefully in brown paper, writes something on a slip, and tucks it into a drawer behind him.
"Thursday afternoon, probably" he says. "After two."
We step outside into late afternoon light. The street is quiet—residential, tree-lined, the kind of block where people walk dogs and carry groceries in reusable bags. The air is cooler than it was when we walked in.
Tom stops a few steps from the door, hands in his pockets.
"Where are you going to put yours?"
"Living room," I say. "So I see it when I come home."
He nods. "Mine's going back above my desk."
I glance at him. "Going back?"
He rubs the back of his neck, looks away briefly, then back.
"Well. It's already there. Pinned."
I blink. "Wait—you've had it up already?"
"Yeah." He shrugs, but there's something almost shy in the gesture. "Pinned, with a thumbtack. So now it'll be hung properly."
I don't know what to say to that. So I just stand there, looking at him.
We don't move. Neither of us seems quite ready to leave yet.
Tom shifts his weight. "This was a good idea."
He reaches up, brushes a loose strand of hair away from my cheek. His hand stays there, palm warm against my jaw. He steps completely into my space. He leans in, and the cold air between us disappears, replaced by the slow, deliberate press of his lips against mine.
My hand comes up, wraps around his wrist, holding him there for a second longer.
When he pulls back, I'm smiling.
"I thought so," I say, sort of laughing.
Tom laughs too.
I exhale, let my hand drop from his wrist.
"Let's grab lunch. I'm starving."
"Me too.”
We start down the block together. The sidewalk narrows near the corner where a truck is double-parked, and our shoulders bump. Tom's hand brushes mine briefly
Tom glances over at me as we wait for the light to change.
"Thai or sandwiches?"
"Sandwiches," I say. "That place on Atlantic with the good pickles."
"Deal."
Tom's hand wraps around mine.
I glance at him. He's already looking at me, corner of his mouth pulled up.
I smile back.
The light changes. We cross together, fingers linked.