Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christina
I’m sitting on my bed and square breathing—inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for four, hold for four—to center myself for this true shitshow of an afternoon ahead of me when my phone buzzes.
I frustratingly snatch it up to silence it so I can continue with my much-needed lunch-break meditation, but instead a bolt of excitement strikes me. It’s a photo from Danny.
He’s staged a stuffed dinosaur—a bright green apatosaurus—over a keyboard in front of three massive monitors, each one filled with various editing programs stocked with image after image of the two of us at the museum.
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): My editing assistant
I’m grinning like a fool with my phone held three inches away from my face.
Danny almost bypassed the gift shop on our way out of the science museum this past Saturday, which is the only heresy I believe in these days.
I insisted on choosing Danny’s memento, and he only agreed if he could choose mine in turn.
I selected the stuffed dinosaur to commemorate our excavation.
“So you’ll always remember,” I said, offering up the plush little baby.
He leveled me with a look. “I’m not likely to forget, Christina,” he said even as he accepted the gift. “First off, I have it on video. And second,” he added, eyes lifting to mine, “that’s core memory stuff.”
I don’t think I’m very good at hiding the effect his words like that have on me. I don’t think I could hide anything from Danny. He’s too perceptive, too discerning. He saw how much I like being a core memory for him.
I hop off my bed and cross to one of my many bookshelves.
I snap a photo of one of the shelves where I’ve neatly arranged his choice of memento for me: a row of quarter-sized rocks and minerals that we spent a good thirty minutes meticulously selecting from a massive tubful boasting every color imaginable.
“So you’ll always remember that the earth is much older than six thousand years,” he said evenly, sending me grinning.
“Plus,” he added, “they’re beautiful.” As if I simply deserve to have beautiful things.
Me: My book guardians
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): Where’s the blue-green one?
We mostly chose rocks and minerals with interesting patterns or textures, but he carefully laid the last one in my open palm, a perfectly round stone that glinted blue or green depending on how the light caught it. “Like your eyes,” he murmured.
I feel a blush creeping across my face as I type my answer to his question, but I’m not going to start holding back with Danny now.
Me: It’s in my pocket.
I indeed slipped the little stone into my pocket as soon as I was dressed this morning.
I have to perform this afternoon, in the most triggering way possible, and I wanted a little piece of Danny to hold on to.
He sees me, and I thought holding the stone that reminded him of me might make me feel seen, even when I’m forced to perform again.
Me: I needed my own personal guardian today
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): Tough day?
Me: It’s my turn to give a devotional in my capstone course this afternoon. It’s part of my grade. I have to incorporate scripture and lead the class in prayer
Typing dots appear, disappear, appear. And I find I’m suddenly relieved, even before Danny has formulated his response, just knowing that he will respond.
Danny made me feel understood even when I was just one of the countless thousands watching his videos.
The effect is exponential having a direct line to the man.
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): You may as well be back on the church stage
Me: Yes
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): That’s deeply not okay
Me: Deeply
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): Would it be helpful if I met you after class? To process and/or decompress?
My pulse skitters. But his offer—and the prospect of being with him after a horrible afternoon on display—does more to calm my nerves than any square breathing. Because I don’t think I could ever feel on display when I’m with Danny, even with literal cameras rolling.
Me: That’s quite a sojourn from our filming schedule
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): I follow where my muse leads, remember?
And now my whole chest constricts. He’s right—a conversation processing this last vestige of being forced to externally participate in a world I’ve internally escaped will be key for the documentary. But I also suspect Danny wants to provide a safe place for me to land.
I stare at the way he entered his name in my phone—a beacon of professionalism. But this project can’t succeed without blurring that line a bit, can it?
Me: What is my name saved as in your phone?
I grin to myself imagining the face he’s making—his usual expression when I ask an unexpected question. A slight flare of his eyes, maybe even a drag of his knuckle across his bottom lip.
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): Christina
Me: Just Christina?
Danny Reeves (UNsweet Tea): Is it supposed to be something else?
I change his contact name to Danny before I respond.
The devotional was as bad as I thought it would be.
I tried my best to make it encouraging and applicable outside of any particular religious context, but there’s no denying the church language and posturing I had to conjure with the scripture and prayer—an act I can slip into like a second skin.
And just as unpleasant as the concept of wearing a second skin.
I trudge up the stairs to my apartment, my heavy backpack banging against my hip with each step. I’m tempted to bang my head against the wall in a similar fashion.
But when I round onto my hallway, my backpack drops off my shoulder as I sag in a massive exhale.
Danny is sitting on the floor outside my apartment door surrounded by his camera bags, as well as several grocery bags.
He pops his gaze to mine at the sound of my backpack hitting the floor, and then he’s so swift and graceful in rising to his feet and striding toward me.
He doesn’t stop until he’s close enough for me to have to tip my head back to hold his gaze—his fiery gaze. Those big eyes search my face, my neck, my chest, as if checking for injuries.
Neither of us speak for long moments. He’s perhaps waiting for me to decide how much I want to say about the whole situation, but I don’t want to say much about any of it for the time being.
I just want to luxuriate in how safe I suddenly feel.
How right it is for Danny to be here, at my door, at the end of a long day.
But then I realize his cameras are packed up anyway. “I’m surprised you weren’t already rolling to capture my heavy trek back to the apartment.”
“I didn’t know how you’d be feeling. I wanted to make sure you were okay first.”
I’m sure footage of me arriving shaken or angry or depressed would be impactful for the documentary. But Danny doesn’t seem to be thinking about the documentary at this exact moment. He seems to be thinking of me—just me.
“What’s in the grocery bags?” I ask.
“Comfort food,” he mutters, studying me as intensely as ever.
He brought me comfort food? I have to blink rapidly to stop any potential tears. “What’s your version of comfort food?”
A small shake of his head. “No spoilers.”
“Let me guess: cans of tuna?”
His lips twitch.
“Those plastic-y rice cakes?”
He presses his lips together tightly to stop the stretch.
“Bags of premade salad that we can pour ranch dressing directly into?”
He finally breaks into that quiet smile with an indulgent shake of his head. “Why would I abide by such shitty comfort food?”
I grin at him. “I actually have faith in your choices. I just like wrestling that real smile out of you.”
He yanks my earlobe.
Before he can pull away, I slip my fingers into his and hold them to my jaw. “Thank you for being here,” I say, my voice coming out a whisper.
His long fingers gently caress mine. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”
I size him up around the lump in my throat. “You look strange without your harness.”
He looks down at himself with a furrowed brow. “I thought we’d use the tripods. But I do have the harness in my car if you’d prefer I strap it on.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Maybe we should eat before we start talking about … strapping things on.”
Now he grins fully—one of those shooting stars flaring across his features.
I roll my eyes, even as my pulse picks up, and drag him toward the door. “C’mon, Danny boy.”
He studies the modest space once we’re inside, the kitchen and living room flowing into one another and flanked by our bedroom doors.
Runzhou and I prioritized a big squashy sectional that takes up most of the open area so the gang could all cuddle up for movies.
We spent weeks last summer combing through antique and thrift stores to create the perfect aesthetic: clean and calming beiges and blues, but just a touch of whimsy too.
An art deco lamp over here. A series of impressionist nude paintings along one wall.
A tower of small cubbies to display all our mugs.
Danny surveys the room with the sharp eyes of a documentarian. “May I?” He gestures to his camera bags.
“Of course. Do what you must, Maestro.”
He quickly sets up two tripods—one in the living room and one in the kitchen. His brow scrunches as he adjusts the settings and tests the mini boom mics. I could watch him fuss over his beloved cameras with that deep concentration all day.
When he finally plops the grocery bags on the kitchen island, his eyes sweep the apartment again, this time looking beyond camera angles and lighting.
“Verdict?” I ask, propping my forearms on the island opposite him.
He tucks his hair behind his ear. “It feels like you,” he says. “But not just you. It’s Runzhou that you live with?”
I nod. “Runzhou is my soulmate.”
His laugh is little more than a puff of air. “I don’t doubt it. You’ve created something beautiful here together.”
“Then why do you look upset?”