Mal wished he had a spoonful of her confidence. Here she was, handing a camera back to a professional photographer without even an iota of self-consciousness. When the tables were turned and it was him doing her job, his hands on a man’s chest, the only thing more horrifying than his proximity to death was his fear that he would do something wrong and lose her respect.
But as he scrolled through the pictures, Mal understood. It was clear that Jo wasn’t technically skilled; a few of her shots were out of focus, and he would have chosen to frame the photo differently, maybe adjusted the white balance some. What Jo could do, however, was craft a story.
Photography and writing, in his mind, were sisters: in one, heguided interpretation through framing, focus, and lighting, in the other, through words. In Mal’s confusion, he had looked up at Jo with a wide but earnest expression, like a puppy who, having been given an incomprehensible command, attempts to please their owner by trialing every one he knows. The smearing of frosting on his nose could have been an accident, or it could be suggestion, a coyThis one’s a messy eater, and juxtaposed with the flex of his forearm on the table, created an image that Mal recognized immediately for what it was: apinup. Or more accurately...
“Is this a thirst trap?” he said, incredulous.
Jo laughed, delighted at having been found out.
“Someone understands the female gaze,” she said. “Look. They’ll make a great introductory post. Post, like, four of the pictures. And for your caption, you say: ‘Hi, this is Malcolm Waters, author ofShe Blooms at Dusk, finally getting on social media and having a cupcake to celebrate.’ Insert self-deprecating joke—be like, ‘I’m not that interesting, so you get what you get’—and tell them what you’ll be talking to them about. Writing. Photography. Magical realism. Whatever you’re into. Done.”
His anxiety positioned as humility. His awkwardness, vulnerability. The concept she constructed was true to him, and yet he could never have come up with it himself.
“You’re good at this,” Mal said.
“We’re not done,” she declared, standing. “We still need a profile pic.”
Mal had wondered why she’d asked him to bring another shirt. Now he understood that it was for smoke and mirrors; to obfuscate the fact that he was generating multiple posts in one day. They walked, seemingly without direction, across the park and down the street, Jo pausing at murals and by cute storefrontsto take short videos of him walking “for filler, just in case.” It pleased him how seriously she’d taken his request. He remembered what Renata had said about her, that when she loved, she did so with her whole heart. If this was how she treated him, a guy she probably liked but mostly wanted to sleep with, he imagined what it was like to be loved by her. He imagined that, once earned, her love would be pure, unmarred by anxiety and misunderstanding, the kind in which she only saw him for his best self, and he worked tirelessly to make her image of him reality.
Their knuckles brushed, and Mal reached for her hand, swallowing back the fizzing in his chest when she took it. Already images were flickering through his mind like frames in an old film reel: Jo walking with him hand in hand on various streets and in various states of dress, a ring flashing on her finger, then the bar of a stroller under her hand, a smile on her face that he knew was just for him.So much for holding yourself back, Mal thought wryly. What would Jo say, if she could witness what was going on in his head? Would she laugh? Would she tell him to dial it back—I just agreed to date you like two weeks ago—or would she like the fact that he was already hers, that already he could hardly imagine himself with anyone else?
Just as he was mustering up the courage to ask her if he could take her out again, Jo skidded to a stop. The momentum of their joined hands made him stagger, and Mal released her, turning to her in a question.
“Bookstore,” she explained, pointing to the sign above their heads stating “Palmisano Park Books.”
Mal’s face fell.
Part of the unwritten duties of an aspiring career author was that Mal frequent independent bookstores. He was to go to thecheckout counter, introduce himself as an author, then give out his full name and the title of his novel, all while curious customers looked on. Afterward, he would have to endure questions about what his book was about, at which point he would conveniently forget the thirty-second elevator pitch he and Amelia had practiced, or worse, he wouldn’t be questioned at all and be forced to purchase the nearest book that looked interesting just to allow himself a graceful exit.
“Um, I’d rather not,” he said, feeling queasy.
Jo tilted her head in a question, her hand already on the door handle.
“Why not?” she asked. “I think it’d be good to get a picture of you and your book in a store. And I’m sure they’d appreciate if you signed a few copies for them.”
“They might not have any,” Mal countered, praying she would drop it.
“Well, you won’t know that if you don’t ask,” Jo said. She narrowed her eyes. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to sell books? Won’t this help you do just that?”
Itwould. Mal knew from the various local author group chats he’d been invited to that his colleagues often made a point to network with booksellers and generated hundreds of copies of sales as a consequence. Jo seemed to know too, by the way she was regarding him with something akin to frustration. It was a little too close to how Portia had looked at him too, when he’d been shy about giving out the studio business card.
“No one has ever given me anything just because,” Jo said after a moment. “I’ve always had to reach for it myself.” She pulled the door open just enough for the bell to ring, not dropping his gaze. “I’m going inside to look. You can stay out here if you want.”
Mal grabbed the door before Jo could disappear behind it. At the smell of fresh paper and coffee grounds, saliva gathered in his mouth, his heart racing so quickly that he had to squeeze a fist to calm it. As a child, small, cozy bookstores like this one had been a haven to him, but now they felt like a stage, a place where he was expected to perform and always floundered.
He felt a tug at the hem of his shirt—Jo, her fingers pinching the fabric to drag him to the front desk. A middle-aged woman with a blunt-cut bob stood behind it and smiled at them as they approached, and Mal realized there was no going back.
“Hi,” Jo said brightly. “I’m wondering if you have a book in stock.She Blooms at Dusk?”
As expected, no recognition flashed over the woman’s face.
“Let me see,” she said. Mal gulped down air as she typed the title into her computer, then clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry. Unfortunately, it looks like we don’t have it in stock. It looks like it’s a fantasy-romance? We have a few other titles in the genre, if you’d like to see—”
“No need,” Jo said, and then to his horror, waved to him. “I’m just here with the author, Malcolm Waters. He’s local.”
The bookseller gave Mal a perfectly polite smile, like she wanted this interaction to end as much as he did. He waved lamely, then realizing that it was strange to wave at someone who was right in front of you, lowered his hand.
“Nice to meet you,” the bookseller said. “Well, please come back in a couple of weeks. It would be lovely to have you sign stock. And don’t be a stranger—we love local authors!”
