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Donnelly and I applaud mockingly.
Farrow just lifts a couple fingers in goodbye. “I’m out. See you boys later.” He walks casually to the exit.
“And there he goes,” I quip.
“Gone so soon. RIP,” Donnelly says.
We all laugh, but my smile fades as I glance at my phone. Knowing, for sure, that he has to be asleep. I’ll see him tomorrow.
I hang onto that, at least.
25
JACK HIGHLAND
Greenland.
Colorful houses in bright reds, yellows, greens, and blues landscape steep mossy mountains that plunge down into a fjord, a deep inlet of water between cliffs. Icebergs jut out of the teal water, and while whales breach the sea, the sound of playful seals fills the chilly air.
The location is so stunning that it seems fabricated. Like some pitch I’ve embellished as a location scout seeking to shoot in the Arctic Circle.
It’s real, though.
On the deck of a bright blue house, I fix my camera on a tripod. Aches and pains flare up as I move around my equipment. Underneath my winter jacket, bruises decorate my body. All over my elbows. Down my hips. I have a big welt on my thigh and knee.
These past five days trying to film Charlie and push back paparazzi has been taxing. Physically, sometimes mentally. A little emotionally.
They shove their cameras in my face and yell, “Jack! Jack! Did you know about Oscar & Charlie before you kissed the bodyguard?!” It’s irony, right? I have a camera. I’m there to film Charlie, and the paparazzi are filming me while I film him.
But Charlie gave me permission to prod into his life. And I’d say I’m nowhere near as aggressive or caustic as most paparazzi. They make me look like a butterfly gingerly capturing footage and not actually weighed down with fifty-pound equipment.
I have a high threshold for uncomfortable situations. I make the best, do my best. But I almost reached my limit while on a WAC shoot filming Jane, Sullivan, and Luna at a pub together. Not only did another cameraman ram an elbow in my back, but he ruined all my footage by screaming questions at me.
I had to scrap everything.
Charlie is even over the outrage. He actually gave me and Oscar a whole day’s notice before booking a flight to Greenland. A private plane and shuttle ride later, we arrived.
He literally flew to the Arctic to escape it all.
I position my lens towards panoramic views of Disko Bay’s endless teal water and picturesque icebergs. It’s peaceful and calm outside. A stark contrast to what we left.
But I find myself eyeing a prettier view. Oscar rests his forearms on the deck’s railing, leaning in a nonchalant lunge, with a paperback in hand. His winter gear is worn well, a total pro at harsh climates, and as my smile rises, I shift my camera. Until he’s completely in frame.
I zoom in on his face. His curly hair warms his ears, and his eyes drift over towards the yellow cabin to the right of ours.
Charlie lounges on a porch chaise and reads a book, bundled in an outdoor blanket.
If I didn’t understand Oscar’s job, maybe it’d aggravate me that he keeps glancing over there. I’ve been no better with my focus on taking footage of the scenery.
Anyway, his concentration on Charlie is letting me capture Oscar in all his glory. I watch him through the camera, my smile widening. He runs a couple fingers back and forth across his unshaven jaw before flipping a page in his book.
We’re dating. My pulse skips in anticipation of where that’ll lead us, practically giddy. The more I’m around Oscar, the more enchanted I feel—and with my work becoming a giant stressor, I hold stronger onto these feelings.
I zoom more.
Oscar turns his head back to me. A grin edges across his mouth, his eyes on me, then right into the camera. “Are you filming me, Long Beach?”
“You’re in my frame,” I smile more and tilt up the camera to capture the light in his brown eyes. “Prettiest part of the setting so far. What do you have to say, Oscar Oliveira?”
He rotates fully towards me, elbows resting back on the railing. Paperback loose in his hand. “That it’s not possible to be the prettiest part of the setting when I’m looking at the prettiest thing here.”
His eyes never abandon mine.
Something luminous brims inside my body. “How’s flirting with the cameraman going for you?”
He mimes checking a watch that he’s not wearing. “Too early to tell, but so far, so good. I’ll let you know more when I have him naked and in my arms.”
Breath staggers in my throat. Jesus fuck. Do I want to fool around with Oscar? Is that even a fucking question, dude. The more we’re drowned in work, the less time we’ve been able to explore further, and there is no other exploration that sounds as enticing as letting him discover my turn-ons and me discovering his.
