Page 79 of See My Words

What the fuck was he going to do now? His project was dead in the water, and all he had to look forward to was endless nights at Spectrum, taking pictures of yet another party, another Fantasy Friday, Scott in yet another pair of underwear.

You could go to Africa.

Rylan shook his head to quell the little voice. No. His relationship with Scott was still too new, too fragile, to risk its survival on a separation that would last several months, especially since Scott seemed to equate “I need some time alone” to “We’re done.” He’d just wanted to take a fucking walk by himself. Going out of the country with a man Scott still half considered a rival? Out of the question. Rylan wouldn’t do that to him.

He was so lost in thought he almost missed his stop, dashing from the car just before the doors started to close. Rylan trudged toward his apartment, his thoughts turning to a cool, refreshing shower. By the time he let himself in, got that shower, and slipped between the sheets, he was almost cross-eyed with fatigue.

I’m home. Talk tomorrow, ok?

Rylan tossed his phone down to the bed, and was asleep before the glow even faded from the screen.

* * *

When he awoke, it was late morning. No reply from Scott, so Rylan figured he was probably still asleep. He made himself some coffee, sat at his kitchen table with his laptop, and got busy. A couple of hours flew by as he culled through and edited the pictures he felt represented his best work. He put them in a zip file, along with his most updated resume, and emailed the whole thing to the photo desks of the local newspaper, the Associated Press, and Reuters, offering his services as a stringer for the Phoenix area.

After that he trudged back and forth to the apartment complex laundry room with two or three loads, stopping once to chat with Val and Katey, who were lying by the pool under a couple of large umbrellas.

His chores done, Rylan took a shower and then checked his phone. Still nothing from Scott, but there was a voicemail from the photo editor of the AP Phoenix office, asking if he’d be available to cover the reaction to a jury verdict expected to come down late that afternoon. Rylan called her back to accept and quickly dressed in some khaki slacks and a denim button-up shirt. A check of his backpack to make sure he had memory cards, fresh batteries, and his lens case, and soon he was on the light-rail again headed downtown.

His phone buzzed just as the courthouse station approached, and this time it was a text from Scott.

U around?

Rylan’s thumbs flew over the phone as he hurriedly replied, Sorry, isn’t a good time. Have to call u back.

He disembarked from the train, heading for the sprawling courthouse complex. There were TV news vans parked at the curb and cameras set up on the sidewalk, so Rylan joined the rest of the media herd, getting an earful about the lurid trial of a woman accused of shooting and stabbing her ex-boyfriend to death after stalking him.

By the time the guilty verdict came down just before dinnertime, Rylan was light-headed from the heat, exhausted, and soaked with sweat. The pictures he got were good—uninspiring, not challenging at all—but the AP editor seemed pleased enough when Rylan emailed the unedited versions to her. The standard sum would be transferred into his PayPal account as soon as he edited and sent them back. Rylan boarded the train for home, thinking, I can do this.

He was looking forward to the bowl of cold cereal he intended to have for dinner, and as he headed up the walkway toward his apartment, he was surprised to see Scott perched on the steps, waiting for him. Rylan noted sourly that despite the heat, he looked cool and unruffled, his mirrored sunglasses reflecting back Rylan’s own red-faced, bedraggled appearance, and his tone came out sounding a little more unenthusiastic than he intended when he mumbled, “Hey.”

Scott’s lips tightened. “Am I bothering you?” He stood as if to leave.

Rylan suppressed a sigh. “No, you’re not bothering me. It’s just, I look like hammered dog shit, and here you sit, all Mr. GQ.” He was instantly ashamed of how petty that sounded and softened his voice. “I’m really, really happy to see you. I’m just hot and tired, okay?”

“Where’ve you been?”

“Working.” Rylan started up the stairs, keys in hand.

“Really? Are you working with Beej, then?”

“No. She didn’t want to help me.”

“Seriously?” Scott asked incredulously. “I can have a talk with her. I know she’s very protective of the—”

“No!” Rylan was horrified. “I don’t need you to talk to her! She was very clear on her reasons for not helping, and this isn’t something I need you to charm her into, Scott. No way. That would fucking mortify me.”

Scott looked up at him from the bottom of the stairs. “Excuse me for just wanting to help, Rylan,” he said, his voice terse. “Last night you took off without a word, and then you refused to answer my texts. How am I supposed to know what’s going on?”

“I didn’t refuse to answer your texts, I was busy!” Rylan gestured impatiently. “Look, I’ve had a shitty couple of days.”

Scott opened his mouth to reply, and Rylan interrupted before he could. “Just come in already. We don’t need to stand here yelling up and down the stairs at each other like white trash.”

He unlocked the door, exclaiming in relief at the dark coolness before flipping on some lights and pulling the memory card out of his camera. Scott came in and closed the door behind him, leaning back against it with his arms crossed.

“Sorry to embarrass you,” he said quietly. “White trash is my middle name.”

Rylan closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “You know I didn’t literally mean you’re white trash. I said we were both acting like—fuck it, never mind. I didn’t mean it like that.” He inserted the memory stick into his laptop and started downloading the pictures, aware of Scott moving behind him to look over his shoulder.