Behind His Lens(32)

I cock my head to the side, “Y’know, I went to Columbia as well. That’s why I moved away from Boston.”

“Oh really? What did you study?”

“Photojournalism, but I’m twenty-seven so I don’t think we were on campus at the same time.”

“Guess not. I’m only twenty-three.”

I wonder what the boys on that campus thought of her. It’s probably best we weren’t there together. I wouldn’t have let her go a single date with anyone but me.

She clears her throat, “Did you always want to be fashion photographer?”

Her question catches me off guard. I shake my head as memories buffet me from all sides— hungry children, bloody wounds, burnt villages. My fists instinctively clench around the armchair as I shove the thoughts aside.

“No. I stumbled into it two years ago and decided it could be a good fit. It’s easy work compared to what I used to do.” That’s all I’ll say. This entire conversation has been too good for me to bring up my demons now.

My subconscious shouts at me to change the subject.

“I saw those paintings in your apartment. They were amazing. Is that what you studied at Columbia?” I slide into asking about her art flawlessly, but she doesn’t answer right away. She eyes me skeptically, clearly aware of the forced transition. I know she sees the desperation written across my features, but no one wants to talk about heavy stuff on the first date. First date. Is this a date?


“Yes. I started painting after high school and lov…”

“Clarissa!” Someone shouts a few feet away from us, and Charley’s head snaps up to follow the sound.

“Clarissa!”

I stare at Charley, confused. The frat guy moving toward us definitely recognizes her and Charley’s wide eyed expression seems to say the same.

“Hudson?” she asks with a confused scowl.

He doesn’t seem to mind her lack of enthusiasm.

“I can’t believe this. I haven’t seen you in five years and I run into you in this crappy coffee shop of all places?” I bristle at his assessment and Charley shoots me an apologetic glance.

“How have you been?” she asks with an awkward smile.

“I’ve been so good. I’ve missed you though. The whole gang misses you.” The guy, Hudson, finally glances over at me but he seems to barely register my existence. My blood boils and I have to fight the instinct to stand up and force him to look at me.

Charley clears her throat. “Ah well. Hudson, this is Jude… a photographer I work with.” She gestures over to me and Hudson throws me a wave. The sonofabitch doesn’t even shake my hand. And what the hell, “a photographer I work with?” How about a friend at the very least?

His cheesy, country-club smile splits even wider when he realizes I’m not her boyfriend. “Oh yeah! I’ve seen you in tons of magazines. You’re even more beautiful than you were in high school, Clarissa.”

She blushes at his compliment and I crack my neck. It’s not something I ever do, but I want to deck this guy and I need something to do with my body so I don’t make a scene in front of Charley and the rest of the coffee shop.

When Charley doesn’t respond, Hudson continues, “You know, I’m glad I ran into you. I have a club opening up on Friday and I don’t have a date yet...” Oh, f*cking hell. Who does this guy think he is?

Charley rubs the back of her neck and bites her lip. Everything about her body language screams how uncomfortable she feels, but Hudson doesn’t even seem to notice.

“That’s so great, Hudson,” she coos with fake enthusiasm. How can he not tell?

“Why don’t you come?” His eyes flicker over to me with disdain, “And you can bring your friends too. I’ll put you guys in the VIP section and drinks will be on me, of course.”

He pointedly drags out friends as though his blanket term couldn’t possibly be referring to me. No, he means fellow Upper West Side WASPs. This guy can’t be real.

Charley glances over at me with uncertainty in her eyes. What does she want? My approval? Does she want me to speak up and claim her? I’m your photographer, Charley, remember? I tip my brow and shrug before sipping my now cold coffee. It tastes like shit, but I need something to occupy my mind so I don’t have to watch her agree to go on a date with this douche bag.

“Um, okay. That sounds good, Hudson.”

Her words grate my heart and I squeeze the coffee cup so tightly that I think the ceramic might shatter beneath my fingers.