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“If you press it halfway,” he says, demonstrating, “it’ll focus your shot. You know what you want me to do?”
“Yes. Take the tie.”
He pulls it from my neck, and it slithers over my breasts. My hairs stand on end. “You ready?” he asks in my ear.
My goosebumps get goosebumps. I shiver, nodding.
“Your hands are shaking a little,” he says. “That’s normal, especially with a piece of equipment half your size.” When he flattens a hand on my stomach, his fingertips graze my pubic bone. “Take a deep breath and hold it.”
I inhale through my nose.
“Do that when you take the picture. It’ll help steady your hands.”
I’m comforted—and a touch more aroused. “You’re a better teacher than you think,” I say because it’s true, but I’m also hoping to tempt him into another round. I haven’t forgotten his comment about roleplaying.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” He stands in front of the camera. “Where do you want me?”
I bite the inside of my cheek, looking him over. Since his face won’t be in it, I need details. “Roll up your sleeves.”
He undoes each cuff, folding them up while his eyes stay on me. “Next?”
“Wrap each end of your tie around your hands.” I frame the picture from his shirt pocket to under his belt buckle. He fists the tie as if he’s about to blindfold me or tie me up, then pulls it taut. The strength in his forearms is evident. They’re bronze and veiny, just as I knew they’d be. I make sure to get them in the shot. When I press the button gently, the lens focuses, and I snap the picture. I take a few more for good measure, then lower the camera. “Got it.”
He half smiles, takes the camera from me, and checks my work. “Only one is blurry. Good job.”
I straighten my back with his feedback. “Thanks.”
“Your turn.” We trade places. “Show me everything and nothing, Hals.”
Standing before him, I lift my dress by the hem, positioning both hands in the middle to keep anything good hidden. I stop above the tops of my stockings.
“You take direction better than I give it,” Finn murmurs. He squats in front of me, inches from my pussy. Inches from the dull ache he promised to satisfy.
My heart beats in my stomach. It was all fun and games a minute ago, but now I’m reminded Finn has suspended me in a state of arousal. Suddenly, nothing seems more important than relief. “Finn?”
“I know, just a couple more,” he says from behind the camera. “I’m coming.”
“I’m not.”
He shows his face to smirk at me. “I’m going to upload these. Go wait for me in the bedroom.”
I pout. “Upload me first. Do them later.”
With a laugh, he turns me by my shoulders toward the door. “I’m paranoid about these things. I’d hate to lose your masterpiece.” He pats my ass. “Go, take off everything. Except the stockings. Leave those on.”
With an exaggerated huff to make my impatience known, I go to his room. As I reach back for my zipper, I catch sight of myself in his full-length mirror. I stand in front of it and let the dress fall around my feet. I turn to the side in just my bra, stockings, and cheekies. I only lost thirty pounds, maybe even a couple more since my appetite vanished a few days ago, but my body could belong to someone else. I’ve never looked better, despite faint stretch marks, a fat roll from my underwear elastic, and my shrunken boobs. I wonder if I’ll gain it back once I completely stop the antidepressants. Even though I’m not sure I want evidence of myself this exposed, I consider asking Finn to take my picture nude in case my weight fluctuates again.
Finn makes a noise from the doorway. “I’m glad I’m not the only one who gets caught staring at you.”
By habit, I cover my tummy. All the lights are on, and he’s looking right at me. “I was just . . . making sure everything is in the right place.”
He smiles and walks around me. We look at my reflection together. “I probably haven’t told you enough how incredibly sexy you are.” He removes my hands from my stomach and scans me head to toe. “You know you are, right?”
I blink from his face to my body. I’ve never been overly confident, not even now. I know I look good, but those insecurities don’t go away overnight. “I think so.”
“I need you to know so.”
I look up again at the intensity in his voice. “I’m not going to gain it back,” I promise him. “The photos—”
“Fuck the photos,” he says gently. “Kendra was always worried about staying thin. She got that from her mom. They talked about it way too much—the latest diet or exercise fad, whether or not they’d lost or gained a pound, like it was a competition.”
“That’s not me,” I say. “When I was heavier, it didn’t bother me enough to interfere with my life.”
“I’m not saying you are, but I don’t want it to ever be an issue between us. If Kendra gained even a few pounds, she’d get depressed and refuse to have sex because of how she looked. And when we did, she didn’t enjoy it, because she was worried about lighting and angles and stupid shit like that. You think that was fun for me?”
I hazard a small smile. I’m actually enjoying his lecture on body image. “I’m guessing no.”
“I’d rather see cellulite than worry that you’re worried about how I think you look. You look perfect because you look like you, and believe me, that’s the most I’m thinking when I’m hard and you’re naked.” For emphasis, he steps into me. He’s not talking hypothetically. “There’s not much else happening in my head. Well, the head on top, anyway.”
I face him, even though the light will show my upper-thigh dimples in the mirror. I’ve exposed myself in terrifying ways to Finn, and he’s still here. There are no words to thank him for that, but I try. “I know it’s only been a little while, but I just, I feel like you know me better than anyone in my life.”
“I might,” he agrees. “And I know there’s more. Much more. I intend to keep peeling away your layers, Halston. You won’t try to stop me, will you?”
He knew me before I even met him. My desires, my insecurities, my aches. I don’t think I could stop him now if I wanted to.
18
While the last few weeks have sped by in a blur of camera flashes and ruined lingerie and soul-searching, two nights away from Halston have felt like a fucking lifetime. I check the time on my phone again, convinced it must be wrong. I should be grateful for this job shooting promotional images at a rural Vermont bed and breakfast. They’re paying me well and putting me up in their coziest room. But since Halston had to stay home and work, being away from her has me questioning whether the money’s worth it.
It’s a troubling thought. Between sporadic work the last year, alimony, child support, and living in the most expensive city in the world, my savings account is headed into dangerous territory. I need to work, but no need feels more essential than being with Halston.
She feels the same. I heard it in her voice this morning, her cheerfulness a thin veneer for the frustration my absence is causing. Knowing her like I do, I worry what loneliness is like for her.
That’s why I’ve prepared this “love letter” for her. While the owners try to get their chickens and goats to cooperate for me, I check my post one last time before I hit share. I don’t have to tell her to check for it. We’re posting daily now. Every image brings more followers. More followers make Halston happy—and me too. It’s validation that giving up a stable, mediocre life for my art wasn’t completely insane. Even if I haven’t sold anything or scored work yet, over a thousand people have decided my photography is worth a spot on their feed.
I don’t hear from Halston the rest of the day. With the year-end around the corner, she’s been working late a lot to prepare. I hate the idea of her working after dark with a scorned ex-boyfriend, but I don’t have much say in the matter.
Tonight, I walk through my door at seven in the evening, and her things are in the foyer. I’m filled wi
th a sense of calm I’ve been missing the last couple days. I dump my bags on the ground and look for her. “Halston?”
She doesn’t respond, but I find her in my studio, looking out the window.
“I’m so damn happy to see you,” I say, stepping into the room. “I was worried you’d be working.” When she doesn’t turn around, I repeat a little louder, “Halston?”
She startles, spinning toward me. “Oh my God.” She covers her heart. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Apparently not. Are you okay?”
“There was a bird on the windowsill—a sparrow, I think. But they aren’t nocturnal. Isn’t that weird?” She glances outside once more, then turns back to me. “How was the trip?”
The dark circles under her eyes are hard to miss. I haven’t been away from her since the first night she slept in my bed. She’s a little thinner than she was when we met. “Awful. I missed you.”
“I missed you too.” There’s so much emotion in her voice, I’m overwhelmed by the urge to wrap her up in my arms.
“Then let’s try this again,” I say. “Get over here and say hello for real.”
She hurries across the studio. When her arms circle my neck, I lift her by the waist. “Don’t leave me again,” she says, nuzzling me.
