FADING (A novel)(76)

“Just listen,” I say. “When I was on campus today I ran into Stacy Keets who works at the Henry Art Gallery. She was telling me that one of her pieces got picked up for a gallery show next month.”

“So, you want to go?”

“Yes, but I was thinking that you could submit one of your photos.”

“Babe,” he says as he cocks his head to the side. “Those are just a hobby that I hardly even take seriously. I’m far from having them displayed in a gallery of all places.”

Rolling my eyes at him, I continue, “Well, I happen to love the few photos I’ve seen. They’re a lot better than you think they are.”

“You’re cute,” he teases.

“I’m serious, I think that you should at least submit something and see if it gets accepted. If not, nothing lost, right?”

“And if they are?”

“Then you can take me as your date for the showing,” I say with a sly grin.

“If I say I’ll think about it, will that suffice?”

“Yep.”

Laughing at me, he buries his head in my neck and starts nipping the curve of my shoulder, which he knows is my ticklish spot.

Giggling uncontrollably as he playfully assaults my neck, I manage to push him away and hop off of his lap.

“Show me all your photos so I can pick out the ones for you to consider submitting,” I tease.

Rolling his chair back to the wooden credenza on the wall behind his desk, he slides one of the doors open and pulls out a stack of mattes.

“Here, boss,” he says with a wink and then follows me as I start making my way to the living room.

“Want something to drink?” he asks.

“Yeah, anything hot.”

Taking a seat on the couch, I cross my legs under me and make myself comfortable as I look at the first photo. It’s a black and white image of a woman’s neck and collarbone. It’s backlit so everything is black except for the outline of the curves. Flipping to the next, it’s another similar sensual photo. Then a photo of a naked woman lying on her back with her legs seductively crossed. I keep flipping, until my stomach is knotted up so tightly that I can’t look anymore.

I set the stack face down on the coffee table and stand up.

“I’ll be right back,” I say as I rush to the bathroom and shut the door behind me.

Seeing the one photo a few months ago seemed so harmless compared to all the ones I just saw. Who are all those women, and why is every picture so sensual? What is he doing with me? I could never be what those photos are, and I know he can’t possibly see me in that way. I don’t think I want him to see me that way. No, I definitely don’t. It’s not me. I’m . . . no, I can’t even finish my thought.

Thoughts begin to flash quickly through my head, and I can’t tell if I am overreacting. If he looks at women like that, then what is he doing with me? I have never really felt unsure of Ryan, but maybe I should be.

My thoughts seize for a moment when I hear Ryan tap on the door, and I wonder how long I’ve been in here going crazy. Apprehensively, I open the door.

“What are you doing?” he asks suspiciously as he takes a step in, and I take a step back. He can read my apprehension and gives me a confused look. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Dropping his head, he lets out a breath of irritation at my lie.

“Is it the photos?”

I don’t respond when he asks, but I know it’s all over my face.

“Candace, you asked to see them. You knew what they would be of.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t think they would all be like that.”

He walks in front of me and leans against the sink and says, “They’re just pictures, that’s all.”

Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, I say, “But . . . they just seem so intimate.”

“Babe, don’t.”

I look up at him and ask, because I need to know, “Did you sleep with them?”

“Yes,” he responds honestly.

“How many have you . . .?”

“A lot.”

“And you photograph them?” I say with a tinge of disbelief.

“No. I’ve only photographed a couple women. Most of those photos are the same person.”

“Oh,” I say as I drop my head, now more worried than ever. I feel uneasy sitting here in front of him when he’s just told me all of this. I can’t help but think what those women must have meant to him. Did he talk to them the same way he does with me? Were they all in his bed, the bed I sometimes sleep in? And what am I to him?

He crouches down in front of me and says, “I know what you’re doing, and you can stop. None of them meant what you mean to me. I never had or wanted a relationship with them.”

“Then why?”

Holding my hands, he admits, “Because for most of my life I’ve been lost. I dealt with a lot of shit growing up, and I used women as a way to escape. But when I met you . . . you’re just different. I wanted to know you, really know you. You’re nothing like those women. Nothing. I’ve never looked at them or wanted them the way I do you.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I shamefully confess.

“I don’t either.”