Page 18 of It Should Have Been You

“Your inspiration, your focus, your passion,” he explains.

I’ve never really noticed, but now he’s pointed it out, I guess he’s right.

“My father bought me my first camera when I was four. I’m sure it got on his nerves how I always had it in his face. I guess it took off from there. Then he bought me my first professional camera two years ago, right before he died. I don’t photograph amazing skyscrapers or mind-bending graffiti or warzones.” I flip the album to the last page, ignoring how I’m blurting my life story at him. “Like I said, everything has a story, even a skyscraper, but the man sitting in front of that building—he was a stockbroker and had a Scotch every night with dinner. Then that one Scotch turned into two, then three, then four. Then it was one during his lunch break. Before he knew it, he was hiding a bottle in the drawer of his desk. You get where I’m going.

“He lost his job five years ago. His wife left him and took the kids. He thought he had nothing to live for and gave up, found himself on the streets watching men in suits go about their day, grab their expensive coffee, and spend a day at work like he used to. That’s the story I’m interested in.”

He rubs his bearded jawline between his thumb and index finger. “You got all that from a single photograph?”

I drop my head and laugh. “No. I sat and spoke to the guy, and he told me. But I love watching people. I love looking at a photograph of somebody I don’t know and creating a life for them. Call it active imagination.”

“It’s why you’re sitting at a table by the window.”

I smile. “Exactly.” I spin the photo album back around. “Even without knowing his story, it’s in his eyes. Here, look.” His face is weather beaten, his once youthful features now embellished with fine lines and wrinkles, but… “He has the prettiest brown eyes, and he wears every minute of his life in them.” He doesn’t speak, and I’m too nervous to stop. “How many people pass him out because they don’t see him? He’s invisible. And those who bother to look, they don’t see the story in those eyes. They see how he looks now, because most people refuse to look past the end of their own noses. He deserves to be seen. Everyone does. I wanted to take a nice picture of him. After all, a good picture can make your day. A bad one can ruin your week.”

He nods slowly, that deep laugh floating across the table until I smile so wide it hurts.

At least the weed makes my ramblings a little more coherent.

I think.

“What age are you?”

“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask a woman her age?” I tease, attempting to mask my own intrigue.

He shrugs, it’s confident and sexy. Who knew a shrug could be all those things? “But here I am, asking anyway.”

“I’m twenty-two.”

His brows lift, a glimmer of surprise in his eyes. “You’re awful in tune for twenty-two.”

I wave my hand, attempting nonchalance. “My father always told me I’m an old soul.”

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips—at least I think it’s a smile. “I’m inclined to believe him. You talk about your father a lot.”

“He influenced me a lot.” I pause, wanting to shift the focus. “My turn. What age are you?”

“Twenty-nine,” he answers without any hesitation.

“That’s impressive.”

“My age is impressive?”

I shake my head. “I was just thinking you’re twenty-nine and have your own studio. From what I’ve gathered, you’re pretty good. It’s impressive, is all.”

“Pretty good?” For the first time he flashes me a full smile and my returning smile falters because holy shit.

It’s beautiful.

Trying to play it cool, I shrug. “Meh. I guess you’re okay.” The artwork displayed in his studio says different.

When I look up to meet his eyes, he’s already staring, studying me like he did my photographs. The heat of his stare is scalding.

“And your thing is tattoos. How long have you been doing that?”

“Since I was a teenager.”

He crosses his arms and leans on the table. I find myself doing the same. He’s all spice and leather, rough but with sharp edges.

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