“Teddy, hi!” she greeted as she spotted me.
“Hey.” The smile I offered her was genuine. Part of my happiness to see her was due to the coffee I had in me and the fresh air I gulped down over the past hour—but mostly it was just her. She was one of the sweetest people I ever met, and she exuded good cheer.
“What are you working on this morning?” she asked, pointing at my camera.
“Oh.” I shrugged, glanced down at the Nikon, and then back at her. “Nothing, really.”
She smiled, the expression lighting up her eyes, and nodded at me. “Yeah. Right. Nothing, which will likely find its way on display in an art gallery one day.”
I laughed, because I couldn’t help myself, and shook my head at her. “You sound like Harper.”
“Speaking of, have you heard from her lately?”
I propped myself against the front counter and shook my head once more. “No, actually. We’ve been playing phone tag all week.”
“Well, when you speak to her, tell that hussy she needs to get up here for a visit.”
“I will,” I replied on a chuckle.
“I presume you’d like your usual this morning?”
“Yes, please,” I murmured hopefully. “And a medium latte.”
“Coming right up.”
I was back out in the mid-morning sunshine less than five minutes later, and home ten minutes after that. By the time I made it inside of my apartment, my latte was hardly more than a memory—but it curbed my hunger long enough for me to clean myself up. I took my time under the spray of hot water, and it felt good to wash off the previous night.
Fresh from my shower, I towel dried my hair before I contained the tresses in another—albeit neater—bun. After I slipped into a pair of cotton shorts and a tank top, I made my way to the kitchen, my need for that muffin guiding me there. I plated the pastry, then took it back to the main room and set it on the coffee table beside my laptop. Sitting with my legs folded beneath me on the floor, I powered up the machine and started on my muffin.
The weekend prior, Andrew and his wife, Carrie, let me do a photoshoot with their son, Steven. I spent all day with them and their adorable four-year-old, capturing as many moments as I could. I was hopeful I managed to get a few shots I could edit and frame for them. I didn’t consider myself a professional, by any means, but I loved the process from beginning to end.
Geoffrey was always telling me I possessed enough talent to earn a living photographing people. While art was my life, my photography was just a hobby. The pieces that surrounded me at the gallery—that was real art. Working for him and Andrew at Mountain Time Art was my dream come true. Any images I might have been able to capture through my lens was just good for the soul.
It wasn’t unusual for me to lose time in my work. Without even realizing it, I whiled away the entirety of the afternoon editing photos. My apartment was quiet, save the click of my mouse as I sharpened and cleaned up images. It was peaceful. A loud knock on my door jarred me from my solitude, and it was then that I became cognizant of the time.
I eyed the small plate beside me, sprinkled with the crumbs of a muffin long forgotten, and a pang of hunger hit me. It was like the world stood still for a while, and a single knock brought me back to reality. I was pushing myself up onto my feet when another round of rapping sounded against my door. This time, the announcement was followed by his voice.
“Freckles, it’s me.”
The sound of him made me quicken my pace. I twisted my locks free and swung open the door without hesitation. “Hey, you.” I gave him a quick once over in an effort to get a sense of his state of being.
It was unlike Geoffrey to look anything other than stylishly disheveled. He was quite handsome, in a very aryan manner. He had a head full of blond hair, which he wore in such a way that was messy but sexy at the same time. He also took exceptionally good care of his body. I called him my Viking, because he was built like one. Except, in that moment, he just looked broken, dressed in a pair of old sweats—his blue eyes sad and red-rimmed.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him, not unkindly.
“Last night, he was a fuck face,” Geoffrey mumbled. “Today—well, he’s still a prick, but he’s my prick. And he’s gone. But—I can still smell him in the bed, and see him in the shower, and hear him in the kitchen and I just…”
His words trailed off, but I didn’t need him to say any more. I reached for the paper sack in his grasp, then took his hand in mine as I pulled him inside.
“What’d you bring me?”
“A pint of coffee ice cream. The vanilla’s for me.”
As I shut and locked us in, he made his way to the couch. I trailed after him and peeked into the bag. A quiet chuckle tickled my throat when I spotted The Notebook, Crazy, Stupid Love, and Blue Valentine keeping company with our ice cream.
“Babe, you know you don’t like these movies, right? Are we just ogling Ryan Gosling tonight?”
He shrugged when I looked over at him, and that was all the answer I needed.
“Okay. Well, we should probably order in,” I informed him as I headed for the kitchen. “We’ll get sick if all we eat tonight is ice cream.”
“Pizza’s on its way. Double pepperoni.”
I stopped and peered back at him from over my shoulder. He wasn’t looking at me, his attention zeroed in on his lap, but I didn’t need to see into the windows of his soul to know how badly he was hurting. And yet, in spite of his pain, he had brought my favorite ice cream and ordered my favorite pizza.
He was right. Reeve was a fuck face, with no idea who he’d thrown away.
Without further delay, I made my way to my silverware drawer and plucked out a couple spoons. When I returned to join Geoffrey, I unpacked the sack, nudging his leg with my own as I handed him his pint. He accepted, and I picked up Blue Valentine.
“He’s kind of an ass in this one,” I said, opening the case. “But I think it best we steer clear of traditional romance tonight.”
After I got the movie started, I joined my favorite guy on the couch with my gifted treat. Even though there was plenty of room on the opposite side of him, I wiggled my butt into the space between him and the arm of the sofa, stretching my legs over his lap. He didn’t even flinch. Neither did he pay attention to the film as it began to unfold.
For a few minutes, my gaze flicked between my ice cream, my best friend, and the television. Geoffrey appeared as though he wanted to drown in his softening pint of vanilla. I wiggled my legs atop his, in an effort to get his attention.
“What are you thinking?”
He shook his head slightly and shoveled his spoon into his mouth, like he had no intention of answering me. I waited anyway, sure he’d tell me.
“I gave that man two years of my life, and he just traded me in for a younger model. I’m old and—”
“Hey,” I interrupted, bending my leg so I could jab my knee into his chest. “You are not old.”
He arched his eyebrows, his gaze locking with mine as he replied, “Baby girl, you don’t know the meaning of old. I could be your fucking father.”
I laughed. There was no stopping it. He was being wilding dramatic.
“Aside from the fact that you’ve never even attempted to make a baby—let alone at fourteen and a half—being thirty-seven does not make you nearly old enough to be my father. So, like I said, you’re not old. And just because Reeve didn’t appreciate you doesn’t mean you won’t find someone else who will. You’re a catch. If you weren’t so gay, I’d be all over your ass.”