Page 56
Story: Before & After You
“No. She’s my friend’s daughter,” I manage. “Maggie?Herdaughter.” And I look around the room, imagining toys and a little castle tent and a chaotic mess of things strewn across the space if she were actually mine. If I had a kid.
Someday, maybe, my living room might look like that. But that day is not today. I would’ve thought that would be a huge clue that shewasn’tmine, but what do I know?
“Oh,” he says, clearly relieved, taking a deep breath as he runs both of his hands through his dark hair. “Haveyou been married?” he asks.
“No…” I shake my head. “I haven’t… But…”And here we go,because if there were ever a more perfect opening, this would be it. “I’ve noticed that you are,” I point at his wedding band, finally giving air to the elephant taking up space in the room—in my mind, my heart. My future.
My throat tightens in anticipation of his impending answer.
“No,” he says, looking down at the dark band, and then he laughs, too, bright and weightless, and our roles completely reverse between one moment and the next. Because nowI’mconfused. “I haven’t been married,” he adds. “Honestly, I forgot I had this on.” He twists it around and around his finger before meeting my eyes again.
But mine pull together in suspicion without my permission, fully giving away my apprehension, because ring, plus ring finger, usually equals one thing: Marriage. If not in the present, then at least in the past.Unless it’s a purity ring,I briefly think to myself.But I happen to know firsthand that that isnotthe case.
So I sit here and silently wait for him to elaborate.
He quickly does, much to my relief. “It was my grandfather’s ring,” he says. “He passed it down to my mother, and she held onto it to give to me.
“She gave it to me after my first tour overseas, actually.”
Okay. I swallow, overwhelmed by the thoughts and emotions swarming through me all at once—relief, nerves, a shaky fluttering in my chest. I believe him, but…
“And you wear it now, because…?” I ask.Because a girl could get really confused when you wear something like that on your finger, I don’t say.Clearly!
And am I a complete idiot? Wasting so much time dreading thewhat ifswhen I could’ve just asked him as soon as I saw him again at the coffee shop?
I don’t know.
Maybe. Probably.Definitely.
His green eyes don’t stray from mine, and I watch as his lips tilt into a slow smile, as he chuckles softly and shakes his head. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole, but…” He shrugs. “It keeps me from being constantly hit on. Not that it deters too many women backstage.”
I bark out an involuntary laugh. At him. At me. Who knows at this point? I sure as hell don’t know, but my relief is palpable. “Must be nice.” I sigh, pressing my back into my couch cushions as I reign all my thoughts back in. “So they come flocking in by the dozens then, huh?” I ask with an amused smile, and definitely a tiny hint of jealousy.
“You could say that,” he offers with a small smirk. “I’m not too interested in other women, though.”
“You’re not?” I manage to respond through my rapid heartbeats and shallow breaths. I don’t mean to jump to conclusions or anything here, and assume what I think he’s insinuating, but what else is that supposed to mean?
“No.” His Adam’s apple slides up and down his bare throat. I can’t take my eyes away from the movement—until he says, “There’s only one woman I’ve been interested in connecting with for the past eight years, and I think we both know that’s you.”
And my eyes snap back up to his.
Forty-eight Before
“JESSICA, STAY BEHIND,please. I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” my photography teacher announced just before the bell rang.
I waited for everyone to file out before I stood from my desk and made my way over to her. Sara hadn’t so much as glanced over at me as she left, so I doubted she was outside waiting for me.
I slowly stepped up to the edge of Ms. Greenburg’s desk and watched as she pulled three large versions of a couple photos I had taken from a manila envelope. She set them down on the desk between us.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she started, but I wasn’t sure what there was to mind yet…“but I enlarged a few of your shots.”
I slid them closer, glancing over them. Elizabeth in the kitchen, looking flustered as my dad kissed her cheek, Ashton and Reagan still wailing at her front and back in their carrier. Sara lying in the wildflowers behind our school, one held up to her nose as she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A football player with his head buried in his hands, the loss of his game written in the harsh lines of his features, highlighted by the dirt and grass stains that marred his uniform and arms. I’d played with the lighting and contrast, editing them in darker, muted tones.
Ms. Greenburg smiled as I looked back up at her. “You took a unique approach to this project. I appreciate your alternate view on the topic.” I tried to grasp onto what she was saying, but I wasn’t quite following. “Any of us can freeze-frame a snippet of time in a photo,” she continued, “but what you’ve done here…there’s a stillness in these shots that go beyond simple photography. You’ve captured“Life in Action”in a way we can all connect with. These quiet, private moments that propel life forward.”
My mind spun around in a slow circle, sliding over each of her words.She liked them?Pride bloomed in my chest.
“These photos view like the work of an experienced and well-known photographer, Jessica. You have something beautiful here, and I’d like your permission to enter them into this year’s DEMA Award. I know a few people, and they’ve already approved them for entry. All you have to do fill this out.” She slid a paper towards me. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship on the line.”
Someday, maybe, my living room might look like that. But that day is not today. I would’ve thought that would be a huge clue that shewasn’tmine, but what do I know?
“Oh,” he says, clearly relieved, taking a deep breath as he runs both of his hands through his dark hair. “Haveyou been married?” he asks.
“No…” I shake my head. “I haven’t… But…”And here we go,because if there were ever a more perfect opening, this would be it. “I’ve noticed that you are,” I point at his wedding band, finally giving air to the elephant taking up space in the room—in my mind, my heart. My future.
My throat tightens in anticipation of his impending answer.
“No,” he says, looking down at the dark band, and then he laughs, too, bright and weightless, and our roles completely reverse between one moment and the next. Because nowI’mconfused. “I haven’t been married,” he adds. “Honestly, I forgot I had this on.” He twists it around and around his finger before meeting my eyes again.
But mine pull together in suspicion without my permission, fully giving away my apprehension, because ring, plus ring finger, usually equals one thing: Marriage. If not in the present, then at least in the past.Unless it’s a purity ring,I briefly think to myself.But I happen to know firsthand that that isnotthe case.
So I sit here and silently wait for him to elaborate.
He quickly does, much to my relief. “It was my grandfather’s ring,” he says. “He passed it down to my mother, and she held onto it to give to me.
“She gave it to me after my first tour overseas, actually.”
Okay. I swallow, overwhelmed by the thoughts and emotions swarming through me all at once—relief, nerves, a shaky fluttering in my chest. I believe him, but…
“And you wear it now, because…?” I ask.Because a girl could get really confused when you wear something like that on your finger, I don’t say.Clearly!
And am I a complete idiot? Wasting so much time dreading thewhat ifswhen I could’ve just asked him as soon as I saw him again at the coffee shop?
I don’t know.
Maybe. Probably.Definitely.
His green eyes don’t stray from mine, and I watch as his lips tilt into a slow smile, as he chuckles softly and shakes his head. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding like an asshole, but…” He shrugs. “It keeps me from being constantly hit on. Not that it deters too many women backstage.”
I bark out an involuntary laugh. At him. At me. Who knows at this point? I sure as hell don’t know, but my relief is palpable. “Must be nice.” I sigh, pressing my back into my couch cushions as I reign all my thoughts back in. “So they come flocking in by the dozens then, huh?” I ask with an amused smile, and definitely a tiny hint of jealousy.
“You could say that,” he offers with a small smirk. “I’m not too interested in other women, though.”
“You’re not?” I manage to respond through my rapid heartbeats and shallow breaths. I don’t mean to jump to conclusions or anything here, and assume what I think he’s insinuating, but what else is that supposed to mean?
“No.” His Adam’s apple slides up and down his bare throat. I can’t take my eyes away from the movement—until he says, “There’s only one woman I’ve been interested in connecting with for the past eight years, and I think we both know that’s you.”
And my eyes snap back up to his.
Forty-eight Before
“JESSICA, STAY BEHIND,please. I’d like to speak with you for a moment,” my photography teacher announced just before the bell rang.
I waited for everyone to file out before I stood from my desk and made my way over to her. Sara hadn’t so much as glanced over at me as she left, so I doubted she was outside waiting for me.
I slowly stepped up to the edge of Ms. Greenburg’s desk and watched as she pulled three large versions of a couple photos I had taken from a manila envelope. She set them down on the desk between us.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she started, but I wasn’t sure what there was to mind yet…“but I enlarged a few of your shots.”
I slid them closer, glancing over them. Elizabeth in the kitchen, looking flustered as my dad kissed her cheek, Ashton and Reagan still wailing at her front and back in their carrier. Sara lying in the wildflowers behind our school, one held up to her nose as she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. A football player with his head buried in his hands, the loss of his game written in the harsh lines of his features, highlighted by the dirt and grass stains that marred his uniform and arms. I’d played with the lighting and contrast, editing them in darker, muted tones.
Ms. Greenburg smiled as I looked back up at her. “You took a unique approach to this project. I appreciate your alternate view on the topic.” I tried to grasp onto what she was saying, but I wasn’t quite following. “Any of us can freeze-frame a snippet of time in a photo,” she continued, “but what you’ve done here…there’s a stillness in these shots that go beyond simple photography. You’ve captured“Life in Action”in a way we can all connect with. These quiet, private moments that propel life forward.”
My mind spun around in a slow circle, sliding over each of her words.She liked them?Pride bloomed in my chest.
“These photos view like the work of an experienced and well-known photographer, Jessica. You have something beautiful here, and I’d like your permission to enter them into this year’s DEMA Award. I know a few people, and they’ve already approved them for entry. All you have to do fill this out.” She slid a paper towards me. “There’s a ten-thousand-dollar scholarship on the line.”
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