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“I know.”
He was quiet before whispering, “Tell me you love me. Tell me you know I need you.”
“I love you,” I whispered, but I wasn’t sure I even meant it anymore. “I know you need me.”
Adam seemed satisfied. “I do. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”
The silence of the kitchen washed over me like surfacing after being underwater. Before crawling into bed, I pushed play on the small tape player I’d found earlier in my father’s office. I sighed when Michael Stipe’s warble started up again.
Song after song slipped by, each chosen just for me by Daniel as a gift, and each muddling my heart all the more. The moon poured in my window, lighting up the photographs on the pinboard over my desk.
I hauled myself out of bed, taking down the pictures of Leslie, Sarah, Mike, and Allison. I fiddled with the pin holding up a picture of Adam from the beach, and then jabbed it in more tightly. If I broke up with him, I’d do it face-to-face. He deserved that much.
I pulled out the photos I’d picked up from the developers and smiled down at the faces of Minty, Antonio, Windy, and Daniel. I pushed a pin in one of the whole group standing outside Tilt-a-Whirl, then chose one of Robert and Barry, and one of Renée. I tacked them up on the board and stared at them.
Then I grabbed my camera and headed out for a night walk. The snick of the shutter and the weight around my neck grounded me, reminding me of who I was and who I wanted to be.
When the sun began to rise, I walked home, sure of one thing: I wasn’t Adam, and Adam wasn’t me.
That was enough.
Chapter Eleven
‡
“Hey, sorry I’mlate.” I greeted Daniel at the restaurant entrance, wiping a hand over my sweaty forehead. It was baking hot, and I’d walked from the parking lot behind Copper Cellar, where I’d left the Volvo.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, smiling. “We’ve got plenty of time before we need to be at Bobby’s place.”
I took in his navy shorts and a plain white T-shirt. The white looked nice against his lightly tanned skin, and his soft brown eyes sparkled in the sun. I hoped I looked okay in my khaki cut-off shorts and a loose, button-up, short-sleeved shirt open over a whiteBoys Don’t CryT-shirt.
We entered the pleasantly air-conditioned restaurant and grabbed an empty booth by the windows. He waved a hand at my camera as we sat down. “I didn’t think to ask Bobby if you could take pictures.”
I shook my head. “Oh no, I wasn’t planning on that. I thought I’d just leave it in the car when we got to his house.” Bobby was Daniel’s Person with AIDS—PWA—and the idea of taking photos of a guy I knew was dying just didn’t feel right.
Daniel shrugged. “Bobby’s really chilled out. He probably wouldn’t mind.”
I brushed that aside and grabbed one of the menus sandwiched between the shiny napkin holder and a ketchup bottle.
“What do you like here?” I asked, running my eyes over the options.
“Oh, it’s all good.”
A small waitress with long black hair approached us with a wide smile and two glasses of water. She pulled a pen out from behind her ear and a pad from her apron. “Are you ready to order now, or do you need some time?”
Daniel ordered a hamburger, and I asked for the gyro. After she left to get our sodas, Daniel said, “I’d like to see some more of your photos. Renée says you’re really good. I’ve only seen the promotional shots you took of her last winter. Which were great, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“How’d you get so good at it?”
“Some of it’s talent. I have a better eye for light, composition, and interest than a lot of people, I guess. But mostly it’s practice. I’ve been taking pictures since I was just a kid.”
Daniel leaned forward. “How old were you when you got your first camera?”
“Eight. I never put it down.” I smiled fondly thinking about it. “I’d try to take pictures even when I didn’t have film in the cameras.”
“Film is expensive.”
