“It’s your job, isn’t it? You clearly love it, so tell me about it,” he insists, and I’m helpless not to give him something he wants.
“It’s for a designer. I had an idea to show their brand and style through the ages, so we are starting from the fifties—”I launch into detail, probably sharing too much. When I’m done, I snap my mouth closed, realizing I’ve been talking for a solid ten minutes straight, but he’s just munching on pastries and happily listening.
“That sounds super interesting. Which decade are you looking forward to the most?” he asks, and I’m shocked by how intently he was listening.
“The eighties,” I admit shyly. “I could show them to you when it’s done,” I offer, shooting him an unsure look.
“I’d like that.” He smiles brightly. “Your images are incredible. You’re really talented, but it’s more than that. I get a sense of who you’re shooting. You captured Skylar and the rest of us so well. You were made to be a photographer.”
“You think so?” I ask.
He nods, humming around a mouthful. “I think there are certain people who are just born to be certain things. Most people would say they make it part of their identity, but they probably haven’t ever felt that passion or drive. One of my friends is an author, and he always describes it like that as well. I feel the same way, and I think you do too. We work and practice our talent, but maybe some souls are born with a purpose. I think so anyway.”
“That’s a beautiful way of looking at it,” I admit. “You’re right. When people ask me about myself, I introduce myself as a photographer. It’s become who I am. It filters into every facet of my life. Most people don’t get that. They think it’s just a job, but it’s more than that?—”
“It’s a life.” He nods. “It’s who you are, almost a religion.” We share an understanding smile as I turn onto the road for his work, wishing the drive were longer.
He continues to eat, and it makes me happy to see him trying everything I bought. I make a note of his favorites for next time.
We just pull into the lot by Starfire as he shoves the last frosted pastry into his mouth, chewing it as he packs everything else in the bag.
I chuckle.
“What?” he asks as he swallows.
Swiping my thumb across his mouth, I show him the sugar from the pastry, which was smeared across his lips. “Messy, like a kid,” I tease as I lean back, sucking my thumb into my mouth as he stares at me with big, round eyes before he shakes his head.
“Hey, I thought we decided on baby,” he teases, making my smile grow.
“That we did.” I nod. “Very sorry. Be a good baby for Daddy today.” The words just slip out, meant to be a joke, but they fall into the now silent car. Both of us freeze, and tension mounts with each silent second. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he gulps, his lips parting, when a knock at his window causes both of us to jump.
Whirling around, he peers through the glass as Noah leans into it, his face cold as he glances from me to Mackie. “You’re late. Hurry up,” he snaps before stomping away. We watch him go, and he turns at the garage door, crossing his arms as he glares at us, waiting for Mackie.
That did the trick, though, because the tension is gone as Mackie turns to me, smiling through a wince. “I better get going. Thank you for the lift and the food. There’s some left. I’ll leave it here,” he says.
“Take it,” I tell him. “I don’t really eat breakfast anyway. You might get hungry in a bit.”
Clutching the bag to his chest, Mackie gives me another wide, crooked smile. “Thank you, Conan.” He opens his door and climbs out before leaning back in. “We’ll talk later?” It’s a question, so I lean over to see him.
“Definitely,” I promise.
“Have a good shoot. Remember to eat dinner.” He leaves, hurrying to Noah, who continues to glare at him. Mackie ducks past him and waves at me before disappearing, and I meet Noah’s narrowed eyes before he stalks inside as well, slamming the door shut behind him.
Sighing, I put the car in gear and head to work, but not even Noah’s sour mood can ruin my happiness from starting my day with Mackie.
I’ve been super busy since I was with Mackie yesterday. The shoot took way longer than we expected and even ran into the night. Today, I’m editing all day and pushing my limits, but I don’t want Mackie to assume I’m not thinking of him. We’ve texted a few times, but he senses I’m busy and doesn’t want to bother me. I find myself missing his chatter though.
I contemplate on how I can show him I’m still thinking of him before it hits me. Grabbing my phone, I spin in my desk chair to face the window and Google some recipes, then I buy everything I need, choosing to have them delivered to his place when he’ll be back from work, then I lose myself in editing again before my phone vibrates hours later.
Mackie: Did you send these?
A picture comes through of a bunch of grocery bags, and I grin as I stretch out and type a message.
Conan: I figured you could try your new baking stuff when you have a moment since I can’t keep you company right now.
Mackie: Is this your way of demanding baked goods?
Conan: Maybe.
