Follow Me(49)

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Those. So maybe this is a dumb question, but why would people want to make their photos look like yours?”

I smiled and shrugged. “For the same reason people buy Kylie Jenner’s lip kits and Michael Jordan’s sneakers. They don’t actually believe wearing Kylie’s branded lip color will give them a pout like hers, or that Air Jordans will enable them to dunk a basketball, but they want to believe in the dream. And the dream that I’m selling is a perfectly curated, perfectly aesthetic life.”

He tilted his head, warm brown eyes searching mine. “Is your life perfect?”

The honest answer was no. Of course it wasn’t perfect. Whose was? I was lonely and living in a basement and losing my mind over the sound of some tree branches. But that wasn’t the kind of thing I could say aloud to the adorable, thoughtful man who had presented me with a breathtaking view of the city. It wasn’t even the kind of thing I could say aloud when I was alone in my own home. Be as if.

“I don’t have too many complaints.”

He smiled crookedly, his expression telling me that he saw through my charade but was too polite to call me on it. Finally, he said, “Tell me more about these presets. How do they work?”

“It’s easier to show you,” I said, pulling my phone from my bag. I snapped a quick photo of the view, capturing the glowing obelisk of the Washington Monument on the right side and a border of the balcony’s foliage across the bottom, but otherwise taking a photo of the velvety twilight sky over the roofs of buildings. I glanced at the photo and then showed it to him.

“Very nice,” he said, nodding appreciatively. “You have an eye for composition.”

I looked at him out of the corner of my eyes to gauge the legitimacy of the compliment—that was the kind of thing Nick might have said mockingly—but he looked earnest. I smiled and quickly added my chosen edits. Instantly, the sky was an inkier blue, the plants a more vibrant green, the monument whiter. I held the phone out to Max for his inspection.

“What about now?”

“Wow,” he said, looking impressed. “It’s a subtle change, but a powerful one.”

“Thanks,” I said, uploading it to my Instagram grid before I remembered that I wasn’t sharing images from this date. I shrugged it off. At least my caption—an emoji of the smiling moon—was ambiguous.

“So here’s where I admit that the rest of the night will be far less photogenic.”

“Careful,” I teased. “I’m grading this date on its Instagramability.”

“Then I’m afraid I’ve failed,” he said, wincing comically as he led me to a small table in the corner of the balcony, almost completely surrounded by potted palms. A blue Dutch oven sat in the middle of the table, alongside a bowl heaped with brown rice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “This tableau is lovely.”

“I made curry,” he said as he lifted the Dutch oven’s lid. “I promise it tastes good, but I’m aware it looks rather . . . underwhelming.” He paused, then gave me a concerned look. “I should have asked if you liked spicy food.”

“I love spicy food,” I assured him as I pulled out a chair. “I can’t believe you cooked for me.”

? ? ?

I COULDN’T RECALL the last time someone other than my mother had cooked for me. For that matter, I couldn’t remember the last time that I had actually cooked for me—and I certainly never made anything half as delicious as the silky lemongrass curry Max had prepared. Over glasses of dry Riesling, we talked nonstop, covering topics ranging from our undergraduate experiences (I’d attended a state school with one of the nation’s largest student populations, whereas Max had gone to the private, urban University of Chicago) to our opinions on the Washington, DC, metro system (I found it a pale imitation of the NYC subway, while Max offered, “At least it’s not on fire all the time anymore,” which sounded ominous and horrifying) and our favorite Netflix shows (I advocated for The Crown, and Max preferred Black Mirror).

“That was amazing,” I told him, setting down my fork. “If I cooked at all, I’d ask for the recipe.”

“It’s just as well, because if I gave you the recipe, I’d have to kill you.” He rose and offered his hand. “Come on, let me refresh your glass and I’ll clear the table.”

I took his hand, but he tugged slightly too hard and I stumbled on my wedges as I stood, landing against his chest and spilling the rest of my wine on his shirt.

“Sorry—” he began.

And I kissed him.

It was, hands down, the most awkward kiss I had ever experienced, including the kiss Tommy Neulander planted on me at the eighth-grade dance, when he aimed for my lips and caught my eye instead. Max was still speaking as I pushed my lips against his, his voice reverberating in my mouth. We stood like that, mashed together, for a split second before I pulled away, cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

“I need to . . .” I said, trailing off as I fled inside to the nearest bathroom. I shut myself inside and stared hard in the massive, sparkling mirror, wondering what the hell had overcome me. We’d been having a lovely, nearly enchanted evening, and then I had gone and done that. I had jumped him like some sort of sex-starved teenage boy, right after falling over my own feet, no less. It wasn’t my style at all.