FADING (A novel)(54)

When I walk out, Ryan is chatting with Roxy. He looks up at me as I’m walking over to him and says, “Hey.”

“What are you guys talking about?”

“Your friend, Ryan, was asking about my tattoos.” I silently thank her for leaving out the hot-ass part.

Ryan takes a step towards me and asks, “You ready?”

“Yeah, I just need to put my bag in my car.”

Reaching out, he takes the bag out of my hand and starts walking to my car. I say ‘bye’ to Roxy as I follow him out.

I zip my keys up in the pocket of my running jacket, and we take off for our run from the parking lot. We head around the perimeter of campus before making our way through a few neighborhoods. I am mostly quiet as I listen to Ryan talk about work and the new bands that have been playing there during the week. Turns out that we pretty much have the same taste in music, and I find his reaction funny each time he discovers I like another one of his favorite bands.

We start making our way through some streets we haven’t gone down before. I follow him and keep my pace by his side. My throat is beginning to dry out when I realize that neither of us brought any water, and I know we’ve already run at least three miles. I am more quiet than normal, and I’m sure Ryan notices when he turns his head and asks, “You okay?”

“I’m thirsty. We forgot water.”

“No worries,” he says as he picks up the pace, and we turn down another unfamiliar street.

I don’t have time to question him when he slows down and starts walking up a driveway to a three-story building.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting you some water. Come on,” he says while nodding his head toward the building.

I walk a few steps behind him, and he pulls out a key fob from his pocket. When he clicks the button, the garage begins to open.

“Do you own this building or something?” I ask.

Ryan turns back to look at me and grins. “This is my loft. I live here.”

“Oh,” I mumble, but I stop following him, not really wanting to go into his home. I try hard to control the anxiety that begin to race through me. I have been spending a lot of time with him and feel like he is trustworthy, but I can’t seem to shake my nerves right now.

He motions for me to come, and I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of basket case, so I swallow back my apprehension and follow him into the garage to the staircase leading up to the loft.

When we reach the top of the stairs, he unlocks the door, and we head inside to the large open space. The main room is completely open with a large kitchen along the back wall of exposed brick. The finishes in the kitchen are industrial and sleek, and two of the walls are lined with floor to ceiling windows. There are exposed beams on the ceiling, and the wooden floors are a rich wide-planked espresso. I wonder how he came to own a place like this; the square footage alone would cost a fortune.

“Here you go,” he says as he walks back to me and hands me a bottle of water.

I take a sip and say, “This is a great place. How long have you lived here?”

“About five years.”

He pulls his cell phone out of his jacket when it begins to ring. I can tell it’s something about work when he starts talking. Telling the person on the other end to hang on, he puts the phone down to his side and tells me, “Make yourself comfortable. I need to take this call really quick. I’ll only be a few minutes, okay?”

I nod my head, and he walks down the hall and into one of the rooms. I stand there in the middle of his house, not sure what to do. As I drink my water, I make my way over to Ryan's living room. It’s filled with overstuffed furniture and a TV that is mounted to the wall above a large fireplace. I walk over to one of the windows near the corner of the room. I accidentally kick a stack of books, and when I bend down to straighten them back up, I see several large black photo mats. Leaning down, I flip one over and look at the beautiful black and white photograph that is a close-up of the curve of a woman’s bare back. The lighting of the photo is exquisite.

I kneel down to flip through the others when I hear him walk back into the room. Before I can stand up he is at my side. I look up at him and say, “I’m sorry.” Setting the photos back where they were, I stand up and he asks, “For what?”

“I wasn’t snooping or anything, I just noticed these and was curious.”

“Candace, I have nothing to hide. I told you to make yourself comfortable, and I meant it.” He steps aside, sits down in one of the large, overstuffed chairs, and takes a swig of his water.

“Where did you get those?” I ask, referring to the photos.

“They’re mine,” he says.

“Yours?”

“Yeah. Sometimes I get bored and like to mess around with my camera,” he says casually.

“That’s pretty amazing for just messing around. You only shoot people?”

“For the most part, yeah,” he says as he gets up from his seat and walks over to me by the window. He picks up the picture of the woman’s back and looks at it as if he hasn’t seen it in a long time.

“She a model?” I ask about the woman in the photo.

“No, just some chick I used to know.” He sets down the photo and walks to the couch while motioning for me to join him.

I walk over, sit down next to him, and ask, “So, when did you get into photography?”