Through The Lens
***
Photography term.
Through-the-lens (TTL) metering refers to a feature of cameras whereby the intensity of light reflected from the scene is measured through the lens; as opposed to using a separate metering window or external hand-held light meter.
Chapter One
Cora
Is this real? This cannot be real.
I ball my fingers into loose fists, rub my eyes, and look ahead once more. Yep, still there. Still strutting around like a peacock fanning its tail feathers. How fortunate are we to bear witness to this monumental event? An event we could all live another day without seeing. An event I pray never repeats itself.
For the love of all that is good in this world, please make it end.
On the compact stage of our favorite bar and grill, a seventy-something grandpa wears an eighties rock band muscle tank top, ripped jeans, and faded black Converse high-tops that have seen better days. He holds the mic to his mouth, tips his head back, and belts out the words to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Some might say, what’s the big deal. Let the old man enjoy life. And I would probably agree.
But singing is not all he is doing. Nope. Karaoke grandpa has added a little “show” to his rendition. Giving the crowd something to remember. For life.
Not ten seconds ago, he picked up his full glass of water, tipped his head back, and poured it down his chest, driving us all down wet T-shirt contest lane. The crowd whistles and eggs him on, and he eats up every cheer given. Flaunts his man chest through the wet tank. But wait, it keeps getting better. Now… Some dumbass walked up to the stage and just handed him a soft-serve ice cream cone. Since when did the bar serve…
What the hell is he…
Oh. My. God!
No he isn’t. Please tell me he did not just…
My hands fly up and mask my gaping mouth. My eyes unable to do anything except stare. I shake my head, barely noticeable to anyone not at my table.
How is this happening? How is it I am here right now? This will undoubtedly be scarred into my cerebral cortex for the rest of my life. Marked in my mental scrapbook for years of reference. A tale told to grandchildren to make them laugh at their grandfather.
Not only is grandpa up on the makeshift stage, singing to the world like he is fifty years younger. Not only has he ripped off his wet T-shirt and flashed his elderly man-boobs to the cat-calling natives. Now he has taken his soft-serve vanilla and is smearing it all over his now exposed nipples. But that is not the worst of it. Nope. Not even close. Because he just brought the dripping cone to his lips and is sucking on the dairy confection as if his life depends on it.
Gag!
Somehow, I manage to break my eyes away from the geriatric porn in front of me and glance over at Shelly and Jonas. When I see that both of their expressions are equally as awestruck as mine, all I do is laugh. I have yet to figure out if we are fortunate to have seen this. Or if we are being punished for something. It’s a crapshoot.
“Are you two seeing what I’m seeing?” I ask, already knowing the answer. To be honest, I want to hear their interpretation of it all. There is no way I can be the only one thinking this is nutty as hell. Karaoke Grandpa has definitely fallen off his rocker.
“I think I need to go home and bleach my eyes. Some things cannot be unseen. Some things should never be seen,” Shelly says on a chuckle.
“Mad props to the old-timer. One, such as myself, can only hope I’m that fucking cool when I’m his age,” Jonas states, an echo of pride in his voice. I giggle as he sits taller on his stool.
And when he glances my way, his sweet smile lights up his face. The one that makes the dimple on his left cheek pop. The dimple that makes me question why we are only friends. Why does that damn dimple exist? Ugh.
But deep down, I know the answer. Or at least I believe I know the answer.
Jonas and I have been friends for most of my adult life. Close to ten years. He is sexy as hell and has a heart of gold. And I know he would be there for me in a heartbeat if I needed him. But I am not so sure if he is long-term relationship material. He has had girlfriends in the past, but most of his relationships only stick for a month or two. And I want more in life than a couple months of good times.
I wish I could be one of those women. The ones who have a couple months of great sex and move on. Just go with the wind. But I am not engineered that way. Never have been, never will be.
Sometimes, I wonder why his relationships have never made it past the two-month mark. Is there an asshole side to Jonas I don’t know about? Or is it the women who are assholes to him? Does the fun fizzle out at two months? Does he get bored with them? As badly as I want to ask him, I can’t do that. It is none of my business, unless he wants to divulge. But still, I wonder. Often.
I laugh at Shelly and Jonas, slapping my hand on the table for good measure. “Tonight will not be forgotten anytime soon. I guarantee it.”
“Word,” Jonas adds.
His knee brushes mine under the table and I suddenly hear my pulse. Heat flushes my skin and dampens my palms. As much as I know I shouldn’t be in a relationship with Jonas, I can’t ignore the way he causes my heart to beat a little faster. The way my breathing turns a bit ragged. There is something about him. Something I have yet to pin down, but maybe one day I will figure it out. Maybe one day, my heart won’t be overruled by my past.
A change of topic is needed, especially since sticky, sweet grandpa has now left the stage after his standing ovation. Bringing the brown bottle with the label peeling at the corners to my lips, I peer over at Shelly and ponder over the neutral things we can discuss. But I don’t have to worry for long because she comes to my rescue.
“So, anything new or exciting happening with work?” she prompts.
Definite neutral ground. Bless you, my friend. Bless you.
“Yeah. I wrapped up a project for the parks department the other day. It was awesome to visit all the county parks and shoot pictures. I didn’t realize how many parks we have in the area. Anyway, they’re publishing a magazine next month and hoping to get people outdoors more.”
“And why didn’t you ask either of us to tag along while you were taking said photos?” Jonas shoots me with faux guilt. There is that damn dimple again.
Why am I choosing to not date him? The more I am near him, the more interaction we share, the more I ask this question. If only I had a legitimate answer before getting admitted to a psych ward.
“Next time,” I mutter. “My next shoot is on Clearwater Beach, for the most part. It’s an advertisement for beach attire—on the beach and off—including accessories. It will be the first time I’ve worked with Global Beach Magazine, which will be an amazing addition to my resume and portfolio. I’d invite you to watch, but that might be awkward. Not like visiting the park.”
Jonas rests his hand over mine for the count of three, two, one. Breathe, Cora. Breathe.
“When does that start?” he asks as he lifts his hand and rests it beside mine.
“Next week. The first of April. The shoot is spread out over a week. Some indoors, but most on the beach. A few also taken in Dunedin. I’m excited and freaking out at the same time.”
Shelly sets her fruity, pink drink on the table, but twirls the blue drink umbrella. “Why are you freaking out?”
“I have no idea. Every time I think of the shoot, I get this weird twinge in my gut. It’s strange. I’ve never felt this way before a shoot. Maybe it’s because my name will be plastered in a national magazine next to some pretty boy’s face.” I wince and shrug.
Snatching my beer from the table, I chug the rest and hold my bottle up, signaling to the waitress for another round. She catches my request and nods.
“But I thought you were hot for the pretty boys,” Shelly teases.
I bat my eyelashes at her. “Damn! You got me.”
And then we are all laughing. Yet another reason why I love hanging with Jonas and Shelly. We can say the stupidest shit and there is no judgment. We love each other for who we are and would never want anything different. That is how friendship should be—unconditional acceptance. Quirks and all.
The waitress drops off another round of drinks and I request an order of tortilla chips with salsa and guacamole. Might as well get comfortable, seeing as karaoke night started with a bang. One can only hope the next act is equally awesome. And by awesome, I mean not another rendition of geriatric porn.
“You guys want to hang tomorrow?” Shelly pipes up. “Maybe we can hit Putt-Putt and go-karts at Celebration Station. I’m feeling the need to speed past some prepubescent punks.” She laughs then sips her fresh cocktail.
“I’m in,” Jonas answers.
“Definitely,” I say. “I’m always up for putting punks in their place.”
Just as Shelly is about to screech with excitement, karaoke grandpa’s competitor jumps onstage. Let’s just say she is trying to up his show and is making a valiant effort. The unmistakable intro and beat of “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot pours from the speaker. Every possible body part on her body is jiggling as she attempts to shake her ass.
Maybe I shouldn’t have ordered food.
Dear Lord, someone save us from the hell we are being subjected to this evening. Shelly and Jonas simultaneously gape at the stage before turning to stare at me. All of us thinking the exact same thing.
“You guys want to head out?” I ask, praying one of them will relieve us all from this new form of torture.
“It’s like you read my mind,” Jonas states. “You want to hang somewhere else?”
It was still early in the evening and I had only had a couple drinks. I wasn’t quite ready to say good night to my friends. “Yes. You want to go to another bar? Or we could hang at the house. Whichever you prefer.”
Shelly pipes up. “Let’s go to your place. We can stop and grab drinks on the way. Maybe watch a comedy on Netflix.”
“Cool with me,” I tell them both.
Bringing my beer to my lips, I swallow the remaining liquid and signal the server. When she steps up to the table, I ask her to pack my appetizer in a takeout box and bring us the check.
One more glance up at granny and I contemplate stopping at the grocery store across the street and raiding the cleaning products aisle. Is it a full moon? A new moon? Whatever celestial event is happening, it has definitely brought out the crazies tonight.
Will my eyes ever be wiped of this night? No. No they won’t.
***
Three beers and two shots in me later, and the three of us are laughing our asses off to Sausage Party on Netflix. It is a toss-up between Shelly and me on who is drunker. I would suggest we flip a coin, but I don’t think that will work out so well. We may have consumed equal amounts of alcohol, but her tolerance is higher than mine. Sometimes I envy her that. Either way, our inebriation is in full swing and life is good.
My eyes grow heavy and I lean more into Jonas’s body with each passing second. The warmth of his skin on my bicep adds a new flush to my skin. Like the sensation of a fresh sunburn. Hot, but not unbearable.
It would be easy. Tipping my head, a little more to the right, I could kiss him. Just like that. And I want to. I really want to. But even in my tipsy/borderline drunken state, I still hesitate. I still resist the urge.
Why do I always keep us in the friend zone? What the hell is wrong with me?
Pressing more weight into his side, I inhale deeply and absorb the scent that is pure Jonas. A strange blend of sunscreen and gasoline and grease. His scent so familiar and somehow appealing. Pleasant and comforting and—
“Cora?” he cuts off my thoughts, my name spoken like a prayer on his lips.
Tipping my head back into the couch pillows, my eyes wobble to his as I half-ass smile. “Jonas?”
The air grows heavy between us. The room quieter than I remember from thirty seconds ago. It is one-hundred-percent possible Shelly fell asleep on the blankets near my feet. But I can’t see her face, so there is no way to be certain.
“What are you doing?” His simple question comes out breathy.
My brows pinch together as I study his eyes. “What?”
He leans in closer, his lips inches from mine. “What are you doing?”
Was I doing something? I don’t remember anything from a couple minutes ago. Having him this close, though, makes me dizzy. Dizzy with desire. Dizzy for more than his lips a breath away from mine. But I also think the alcohol is working some serious voodoo on my organs right now.
A light sheen of sweat breaks out over my skin as my stomach gurgles. I scoot forward on the couch and take a slow, measured breath. My gut groans at me again and I have a feeling everything is about to head south really quick. Or would it be north?
“I don’t feel so good,” I tell Jonas.
The back of his hand brushes over my forehead and I catch a blip of relief before he removes it. “Cora, you’re kind of pale and clammy.” He rises from the couch and extends his hand out to me. “Let me walk you to your bed. I’ll grab you a cool cloth.”
Slipping my hand into his, he walks me the short distance to my bedroom. As I go to sit on the bed, nausea rolls through my core and I bolt up and run for the bathroom. This will not be pretty.
Thank the angel watching over me for allowing me to make it to the porcelain throne in time. Besides the fact that I am expelling the contents of my stomach, the one takeaway from this moment… Jonas is by my side, rubbing my back and holding my hair. He really is a great guy.
Chapter Two
Gavin
Why can I not walk through this fucking airport without people smacking into me?
Flying is bad enough. Mix that in with LAX during the early morning and my life is a new version of hell. Some woman with a stroller smacks into my arm while the child who should be in said stroller hangs limp at her side. Literally hanging. Under normal circumstances, I might tell the woman her little girl is adorable. But circumstances aren’t normal because the little girl is shrieking like a banshee. Limbs thrashing and kicking anything within reach. No doubt the entire terminal hears this girl.
Could the mom not just move out of the way and deal with her kid? Seriously. Why drag your kid around and make a show out of it? If it were my child, I would be embarrassed as hell.
“Gavin? Did you hear what I said?” Alyson asks through the phone pressed to my ear as I am about to knock some twenty-year-old prick out of the way. This whole situation is already shit. Is it everyone-get-in-Gavin’s-way day?
“Can you repeat that, Alyson? There’re more dicks than normal in the airport today.” I speak louder than necessary, hoping the dipshit hears me and gets out of my fucking way. He peers over his shoulder, catches my expression and hustles to get out of my way.
Thank fuck.
“You should be landing in Tampa around six fifteen p.m., eastern time. I emailed the hotel details to you. Please be on your best behavior. My flight leaves in the morning tomorrow, so I’ll meet up with you for dinner and we can get caught up on your itinerary.”
Of all the things that come along with this crazy job, I am glad it includes Alyson. I never realized how amazing it would be to have a personal assistant/agent. When I first started this gig, I thought it would be as easy as pose, click, done. Good looks should have made it simple. Boy, was I wrong.
Dead wrong.
It has taken years, but I have finally mastered the art of angles and lighting. Knowing which way to face in different lighting. How to dip or lift my chin. How to stand so the right muscles pop for the photo. Nothing is ever as easy as it seems. But with great mentors and years of practice, confidence is on my side.
After checking my luggage, I head to the terminal for my flight. I have about twenty minutes before they allow us to begin boarding. So, while I wait, I decide to hit one of the eateries and grab a quick bite and a drink.
The moment the airline calls for us to board, my palms break out in a cold sweat. I finish off the drink and the coolness calms me a fraction as I head for the gate.
Just breathe, dude.
I have flown enough times in the last eight years to be a pro. Have racked up so many airline miles I can’t redeem them quick enough. My job has taken me to some of the most amazing places, within the states and beyond. Not once have I been so nerve-wracked before boarding a plane.
So why now? What is so different about this trip?
The Bay Area is just another sunny oasis with hot chicks and tourists for days. Minus some of the landscape, it’s not all that different from California. I honestly don’t know why people prefer one oasis over the other. Guess it depends on if you prefer elevation or not.
I board the plane and locate my seat, throwing my carry-on in the overhead compartment. Staring out the window, my eyes zoom in on the wing of the plane, when the person I will sit beside for the next six hours bumps my elbow. I roll my eyes and shake my head.
Can people just stop knocking into me today? For the love of…
I turn to see who sits beside me and my breath catches a second. A sexy as sin blonde shifts, trying to wrangle her purse strap over her head, which seems to be caught on her necklace. What a perfect setup.
“May I?” I gesture toward her neck, offering to help separate the two.
“Please,” she huffs, obviously frustrated and embarrassed with the state of what is happening.
Aiding her with the strand and strap, we free her from the entanglement. She tips her head back against the seat, inhales deeply and takes a moment to calm down. After a sigh, she turns in her seat to better face me.
“Thanks for that. As cute as this purse is, I think I’m going to get rid of it. That wasn’t my first rodeo in the tangled department.” She shakes her head and laughs.
“Sure thing. Glad I could help,” I offer. I extend my hand to her. “I’m Gavin.”
“Brandy. Nice to meet you,” she says and shakes my hand. “Business or pleasure?”
“Sorry?” The way the word pleasure rolls off her tongue has me thinking of several ways I can give her exactly that. Blonde isn’t generally my type, but when it’s just for fun, does it really matter?
“Your trip. Is it for business or pleasure?”
Ah, yes. Generic question, generic conversation. I should be used to having meaningless conversations by now. Not like my job requires me to engage in deep, life-changing chats. Would be a nice change, though. Whatever. At least I get to sit next to someone who isn’t painful on the eyes. Could be much worse.
“Business. You?”
“Pleasure. I’m meeting up with my boyfriend and a couple friends in Brandon. I was out here visiting family.”
“Cool.”
Nothing else comes to mind to say after learning she has a boyfriend. Automatic buzzkill. Sure, I could ask how her visit with her family went, but we don’t know each other and it is none of my business. So, I don’t dig.
At the mention of friends, I wonder if I will see anyone besides Micah from my teen years while I am on this trip. It will be nice to hang with Micah and catch up. I haven’t been back to this part of Florida since my mom received a promotion thirteen years ago. A promotion that had us moving out of the Sunshine state and across the country to the Golden state. A move that changed my life in more ways than one.
Maybe that is what has me so on edge. The possibility.
Brandy retrieves her phone and plugs in her earbuds, essentially talk-blocking me for the entire flight. So much for having a cute blonde to distract me. Generic conversation would have been better than nothing at all. This flight will last longer than the actual flight time.
I retrieve my phone from my back pocket, open up my Spotify app and hit play, looping the playlist. Leaning my head back against the seat, I gaze out the window and let my eyes lose focus on the skyline.
Ten days. I will only be there for ten days. A week and a half. It will fly by.
What is the likelihood I will run into anyone? Run into her? Slim. One in a million.
Majority of my time there will be wrapped up in photo shoots and dinners with Alyson and the photographer. There won’t be any time to do anything else. And besides, I am sure everyone has moved away. I mean, who stays in the same place they grew up? As soon as they come of age, most people move away.
But a part of me begs the universe to let me see her again. Even from a distance. See how she is. If she is with someone. Happy. What she looks like. Has she changed from the girl I knew? God, I hope there is no animosity after all these years. After everything, I hope she doesn’t hate me.
The plane taxis down the runway and we are off the ground seconds later. I pinch my eyes shut and focus on the music blaring in my ears. The music blankets the roar of the engine just barely, but does nothing to mask the vibration. Or the queasiness in my gut.
Just breathe, dude. The chances are slim.
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