“Of me?”
“Maybe . . . yes. Sorry, I should have asked. You just looked?—”
“It’s okay.”
Is it? My lips part, willing my brain to come up with a better explanation for my moment of insanity, but Ledger’s expression doesn’t give away any sort of irritation toward me.
A softwhiras the film inside the camera automatically winds forward fills the silence between us while I wait for his reaction. After a minute, he turns his book upside down, places it on the back of the couch, and turns to his side, one fist propping up the side of his head.
“Why do you have so many of those?” His eyes flick down to my open bag.
“They’re for work. I’m a photographer.”
He nods, then tilts his head curiously. “A professional with a disposable camera?”
I smile and shrug, turning it over in my hand. “High-tech gear is nice. Most of the time, it’s what I use. I’m not pulling this thing out at big-time shoots or anything,” I laugh. “But it’s simple and spontaneous. Reminds me of why I fell in love with taking pictures in the first place.”
“What kind of photographer are you?”
“Is this a game of twenty questions? I think it’s my turn if that’s the case,” I tease.
“There are rules?”
“Yes. One question per turn and no follow ups.”
He huffs with amusement. “Fine. Just answer the question first.”
“I do editorial photography, mostly. I’m freelance. I scout a lot while I travel, and take jobs as they come. I usually try to elevate the direction I’m given with a nature background. Something that feels less posed, more natural.”
At first, his only response is a wrinkle in his forehead as he thinks about what I said. Sharing things about myself feels different knowing Ledger has no preconceived notions of me. We’re oblivious to each other’s pasts, dreams, fears . . . There’s nothing to prove.
“Damn. So . . . you like the outdoors, then?”
I do my best to playfully scowl, realizing he skipped my turn to ask a questionagain. His eyes linger over me and his jaw clenches like he’s about to savor every syllable out of my mouth. I don’t know why that is, but my heart skips with a subtle thrill wondering if it’s because he can’t suppress his interest.
“Oh, absolutely,” I answer. “By the way, I saw a hat on your dresser. From the Badlands? I’d love to go there someday. Was it a tough hike? I mean, I’ve done Angel’s Landing, so I’m sure I could still do it even if it were challenging. But I don’t usually take my heavy camera gear with me on the harder ones.”
He stares at me. Bewildered, almost. I tilt my head, waiting for his answer and wondering if I said something off-putting or that he didn’t like.
His voice is low once he finally speaks. “You hike.”
It’s more of a statement than a question, like he’s repeating something he thinks he already knows but wants to make sure he heard me correctly. I nod and he chuckles, shaking his head.
Maybe he thinks that’s dumb, but if he has a hat from a hiking trail, that’s unlikely. More probable is the possibility that he likes that about me, which sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering beneath my rib cage.
He looks over to the window, watching the snow fall for a moment. I’m tempted to take more pictures of him, but I hold back. I don’t want to make things weird.
I copy his movements as he sighs and retrieves his book, putting it back in his line of vision. I might take it as a bad sign that he doesn’t have much to say, but I have a feeling that’s just his personality and not an intentional move.
He’s calm, steady, and quiet on the outside. But I think his thoughts swirl around his head loudly, and the energy around him is filled to the brim with pent-up emotion. I can only imagine what it’d be like to strip it all down and see how he is with no safeguard in place.
The spine creaks as I open the book to my saved spot. The tips of my fingers hover over the weathered and thin pages. My eyes scan over the words, trying to find the exact place I left off. I’ve been distracted while reading, and I flip back toward the beginning to recount the events so far.
“He died alone, as men in the West often did,” I read out loud.
In my peripheral, Ledger lifts his head to look at me.
The passage in the book makes my chest ache. This man met his end with his family completely unaware that they should be in a state of mourning. They thought he’d be back soon. He was dead, and worse . . . alone.
