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“I am.”
“What’s that like? What’s he like?”
I sighed as I thought of Michael. Andrew frowned but didn’t say anything.
“Being engaged is this in-between world,” I said finally. “People can no longer ask you, ‘when are you getting married?’ but they move on to other questions. Harder questions. Like ‘are you thinking about having kids?’ or even ‘how many kids are you going to have?’” I picked at the skin around the base of my nails, avoiding Andrew’s gaze. “I feel more unsettled now than I did before.”
“And your fiancé? What’s he like?”
I shrugged. “He’s great,” I said. “Motivated, generous.” I blushed. “Attractive.”
Andrew smiled his awkward-kid smile again. “You love him.”
I smiled, too. “Of course. And he loves me.” I frowned then. “Catalina doesn’t seem to think so.”
“Is she still looking for the greatest love of your life for you?”
I laughed. “Yup. Even though I’m getting married in two months.”
Andrew joined in with a laugh of his own. “Of course.”
I scooped a spoonful of my ice cream. I rolled the ice cream around my tongue as I reminisced. “I’ll never forget the time she tried to hook me up with Terry.”
“Thomas.”
“Whatever. It was a disaster. He actually had the nerve to say, ‘the gymnastics team is good, for a bunch of girls.’ For a bunch of girls! What a whole lot of what-the-fuck.”
“You mean, you weren’t good for a bunch of girls?” When I turned to Andrew, ready to pummel him, I recognized the little-brother smirk on his face and rolled my eyes. “What? Was he wrong?”
“We were good for anybody, full stop.” I caught Andrew’s eyes. “Guys included.”
We sat in a warm silence for a while, eating our ice cream. Andrew smoothed the top of his with his spoon before asking, “So are you still taking photos?”
I nodded as I licked all of the ice cream off of my spoon. Andrew watched. “Nothing has gotten picked up yet, though.” I shrugged and fiddled with my spoon. “Same old rejection letter. ‘Not a culture fit.’”
Andrew scoffed. “What does that mean, anyway? Culture fit. It’s not like you’re trying to promote photos of cannibalism. It’s American event photography.”
“I know, right?” I turned to him then, heat rising in my blood. “I’m taking photos of fucking rock bands, for Christ’s sake.”
He took a bite of his ice cream with vigor. “Do you have a picture of yourself anywhere on your submissions?”
I thought back for a moment on all of the emails I sent. “Yeah, it’s in my email signature. Why?”
He nodded then, understanding twisting his mouth into a grimace. “Then culture fit refers to this.” He gently rubbed his knuckles against my arm. My whole arm tingled with the contact. I quietly marveled at how compatible our skin tones were before shaking away the thought. “You don’t often see black people on the rock scene. Think about it: how many black, female-lead rock bands do you see out there?”
“Not many. You have The Leroys, but that’s pretty much it.” I picked up my spoon again and considered it. “You’re right, of course. I should’ve known better. I’ll have to take my photo off of my signature.”
Andrew turned to me then, defiance bright in his eyes. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not? I won’t get hired if I don’t.”
“You will find a company that will hire you because you are who you are. You won’t have to trick them into it. I feel it.”
“Okay Ms. Cleo,” I joked. He sighed impatiently, and I turned to see disappointment flatten his mouth. “What?”
“You still do that thing where you make a joke out of serious things.” He faced forward on the bench and took another bite of ice cream. “And it’s still as annoying as it was back then.”
I coached my face into a neutral expression though I grit my teeth against my sudden anger. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
