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I cock my hip. Muss my hair. Shoot the camera fuck me eyes.
Click.
There’s a picture of me on his phone. There’s a picture of me in a sports bra and tiny shorts on his phone.
My blush spreads over my chest. I force myself to look up at the sky. Throw my hand over my eyes. Pretend as if I’m endlessly fascinated by a plane flying overhead.
Click.
I brush my sweaty hair behind my ears. “I look terrible, don’t I?”
“You’re better than baiting for compliments.”
“You don’t understand the insecurity a girl feels posing for photos without makeup.”
“You call this without makeup?”
Okay, so I don’t leave home without winged eyeliner and dark lipstick. That isn’t a crime. “With less makeup.”
“You look perfect, Leigh. Like a punk rock princess.”
“You know that’s a Something Corporate song.”
“I knew the first time you told me.” He stares at the screen. “Still suits you.”
I shake my head you’re ridiculous, even though I love the nickname.
I love that he thinks I’m a punk rock princess.
I love that he notices my hair, clothes, and makeup.
I turn back to Ryan, uncap my water bottle, suck the last drop of water from the mouthpiece.
Click.
“Not sure I get this, Leigh.”
“It’s fun.” I pull my cell out. “Your turn.”
He shoots me that you’re ridiculous look, but he still straightens his t-shirt.
He stares up at the sky like all his hopes and dreams are in the sunset. Click.
He turns to the camera. His piercing blue eyes fill with this gorgeous mix of hurt and frustration. Click.
Then he blinks, and it’s garden grade exhaustion. Click.
I move closer. “Take one with me.”
His eyes light up with epiphany. “No.”
“Why not?”
“You’re better than this.”
“Than posing during a run with my best friend?”
His expression softens. It means something to him, being my best friend.
