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“Of course not!” she exclaimed. “I’m happy you’re out of that mess. I agree. Adam had me and your father fooled for a very long time. But I just wonder if this Daniel has what it takes to keep your interest. He wants to be a nurse? That’s not very creative. You’re an artist! You’re more interested in artistic men.”
“Nursing is very creative,” I countered. “And I know what kind of man I like.”
“But he’s got so much family baggage, honey. Maybe it’d be better to wait and—”
“Jessica, your son is nineteen years old,” my dad interrupted. “Let him date who he wants. You certainly did at his age.”
She swirled her glass of wine before taking another sip. “I’m not saying you shouldn’t date him. I’m just saying don’t let it go too far. He’s the kind of guy who gets serious fast. He’ll want you to move in with him before too long. I don’t want you getting hurt or hurting someone else just because you’re on the rebound after—”
“This is not a rebound situation,” I bit out. “I love him.”
Mom shot Dad a glance and raised her hands in surrender. “All right, you love him. That’s fine. You’re young and—”
“Daniel is the best person I’ve ever met. He’s always trying to do what’s right. He might not be as charming as Adam, and his love might be less of a roller-coaster ride, but I’m happy when I’m with him. I like whoIam when I’m with him. And I’m sorry if you think I need ‘more’ than that in some indefinable way.” Rage pricked my heart.
“I just think you don’t have the chemistry you and Adam—”
“You’re not there when we’re alone together. You don’t know what it’s like.”
She put her hands up again, and Dad sighed when I met his gaze. “What? Do you agree with her?”
“No, son, I think you’re happy, and I liked him very much. Who am I to have an opinion other than that? I made an error in trusting Adam, but Idotrust you. If you’re happy, then I’m happy.” He lifted his brows at my mom.
“Your father’s right, of course,” she said. “I’ve been writing romance books for too long. Just because I don’t see a spark—”
“Ifeela spark,” I said, sighing. “I’m happier than I have been in a long time, and I don’t know why you can’t see that.”
“He’s a nice young man,” Mom said. “I’ll say no more.”
But her words rankled all the same.
I’d always tried to keep myself from playing the comparison game in my head, but that night I climbed into my bed withRobinand another one of Harold Seville’s books of portraits. I compared the pictures he’d taken of George to the ones he’d taken of other men—other lovers.
There were differences, of course, but who could say if one set of pictures was better than another? The existence of an entire book dedicated to just George did say something, but the publication was after George’s death. For all I knew it was only put out because he was gone, whereas the other men…
I got out of bed and went to my files. I pulled out the few photos and all the negatives I’d kept of Adam, as well as the Jobar’s negative viewer I’d gotten for my birthday. I looked at the handful of photos I’d decided were worth keeping months ago, and, one by one, tossed them into the trash. Viewing the illuminated negatives through the Jobar’s magnifying glass was like a punch in the gut, and, at the same time, like observing something from a dream.
This smiling Adam, that laughing Adam, almost didn’t seem real. As if I’d made him up. This boy couldn’t be reconciled with the liar I knew him to be, or the rageful, jealous dick I’d seen at the restaurant, or the desperate, miserable person who’d followed me in the car not even a full month ago.
I got out the files that held the photos I’d taken of myself during senior year, most with timers and some with mirrors. They were ghastly. I was too thin, with sad eyes and a nervous tension throughout my body. I remembered Dr. Landry telling me it was clear from some of these photos that I understood what it might be like to kill off the poetry in your soul. And that had been on Adam—well, on both of us. Our choices, the way we lived and lied. The poetry in me had almost died from all that filth.
But it hadn’t.
I pulled out my files of Daniel. The most recent ones, taken three days after our night at the hotel, were gorgeous. A smile spread over my face as I gazed at them. I’d taken them by the river next to his house as the sun was coming down, and he’d agreed to let me photograph every part of him. He was naked, coated in coral light, and as relaxed as the water rippling behind him.
I’d also taken pictures of him with his clothes on, looking rumpled but easygoing, and calm in a way that always made my heart unclench.
If Mom didn’t see what I saw, that was fine. She didn’t need to.
Daniel was beautiful, inside and out, and being with him didn’t make me feel like I needed to take photos of myself curled up in corners of abandoned buildings, or haunted and alone in mirrors, documenting love bites from a guy who would never love me in public.
I took out my latest set of self-portraits, taken the day after the hotel, and I gazed at them. I was relaxed, casual, and my eyes glinted with joy. I was a whole person in them, and maybe that wasn’t as interesting, as edgy or intense, but it was just as real. More importantly, it didn’thurt.
The last pictures I looked over were ones I’d taken using a timer and a well-placed camera on the bookshelf by Daniel’s bed. They were erotic, and once again I was grateful to Marta for her tips on when to sign up for darkroom times. I needed that access to develop these private, intimate pictures.
In the photos, I was on my back, legs spread, with Daniel over me. I’d loaded the camera with a thirty-six-count roll of 400 speed film and set it on autofocus with a click rate of every minute. The results were beautiful.
Me taking Daniel in, face twisted up with ecstasy and lust, and Daniel, holding me open, moving into me—the gradual escalation, the raw passion as he drove into me near the end, the way my toes curled, the vulnerability in my eyes as he’d taken me to climax. It all added up to plenty of chemistry, and it was all there in picture-proof for me to relive over and over.
