Page 30 of A Man To Remember (Skin on Skin #3)

AUSTIN

Three months later.

THE PLACE BUZZES with the kind of energy that makes my palms sweat and my heart race in ways that have nothing to do with caffeine.

Bodies move through the space like schools of fish, clustering, dispersing, reforming somewhere else.

The lighting is perfect—warm but not too warm, bright, without creating glare on the glass.

I've been to plenty of gallery openings before, but always as a guest. Always on the outside looking in, nursing cheap wine and pretending to understand the artistic vision behind abstract paintings that looked like someone sneezed paint onto a canvas.

This is different.

This is mine.

My photographs line the walls in carefully curated arrangements, each one matted and framed with the kind of attention to detail that makes art look official.

The title card next to the entrance reads Intimate Strangers in elegant serif font, followed by my name in smaller text beneath. Seeing it there, printed and permanent, still feels surreal.

Jesse appears at my elbow with two glasses of water, one of which he presses into my hand. "Breathe," he whispers, close enough that only I can hear him. "You look like you're about to pass out."

"I just might."

"Don't. Not yet. There's a woman over by the corner piece who's been staring at it for ten minutes. I think she's calculating how much wall space she has at home."

I follow his gaze to where an elegant woman stands transfixed by one of my favorite shots—a couple caught in the moment just before a kiss, all tension and anticipation and electric space between their bodies.

"She asked me three times if it was for sale," Jesse continues, pride evident in his voice. "I told her she'd have to talk to you, but yes, everything's available."

The past two hours have been a blur of handshakes and small talk and people saying things like "fascinating use of shadow" and "really captures the raw intimacy." Jesse has been by my side the entire time, playing unofficial ambassador, talking up my work to anyone who'll listen.

He's better at this than I am, actually.

More natural with strangers, better at reading what they want to hear.

When someone asks about my process, he launches into explanations about lighting techniques and the importance of making subjects comfortable.

When they ask about inspiration, he talks about the beauty of human vulnerability with the kind of passion that makes people lean in closer.

It's like watching him discover a talent he didn't know he had.

"Austin?" A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to find a man in an expensive suit approaching with purpose. "I'm David Chen from Morrison & Associates. Could I steal you for a moment?"

Morrison & Associates. I know that name. High-end advertising, luxury brands, the kind of clients who pay photographers enough to buy houses.

Jesse squeezes my arm once before stepping back, giving us space.

"I've been admiring your work," the man continues, pulling out a business card. "Particularly the series with the male subjects. There's something about the way you capture masculinity—it's powerful but not aggressive. Confident but accessible."

I nod, not trusting my voice yet.

"We have a client launching a new men's fragrance campaign. High-budget, national rollout. They're looking for something that speaks to modern masculinity, and I think your aesthetic would be perfect."

The words hit me like physical objects. National campaign. High-budget. The kind of job that could set me up for years.

"I'd love to set up a meeting," he continues. "Discuss the details, see if it might be a good fit."

I manage to find my voice. "That would be... yes. Absolutely."

We exchange information, and he promises to call next week. As he walks away, I stand frozen in place, trying to process what just happened.

Jesse reappears immediately, like he was hovering just out of earshot. "Good news?"

"I think I just got offered the biggest job of my career."

His face lights up like I've told him he won the lottery. "Austin, that's incredible!"

Before I can respond, the gallery owner approaches with a clipboard and an expression that suggests more good news.

"Just wanted to give you an update. We've sold twelve pieces tonight, and there are three more with serious interest pending. This is..." She pauses, checking her notes. "This is exceptional for an opening. Really exceptional."

Twelve pieces. In one night.

I look around the gallery with new eyes, noticing the small red dots that have appeared next to frames while I wasn't paying attention. Sold stickers. Proof that people don't just like my work—they want to live with it.

"There's also been some interest from collectors," she continues. "People asking about future work, wanting to be notified when you have new pieces ready."

The room spins slightly, and I reach for Jesse's hand to steady myself. This is more than I ever dreamed of when I decided to stay. More than I hoped for when I first approached the gallery with my portfolio, nervous and trying to play it cool.

This is a career. A real, sustainable career doing work I love in a city I'm learning to call home again.

"You okay?" Jesse whispers.

I squeeze his hand and look around the room one more time—at my photographs on the walls, at the people studying them with genuine interest, at the red dots marking sales, at the business card in my pocket that might change everything.

"Yeah," I say, and mean it completely. "I'm perfect."

***

JESSE

AUSTIN'S KEY FITS in my front door like it was always meant to be there.

My front door. Our front door now, I guess, though we haven't made it official with paperwork or anything dramatic like that.

He just started leaving more clothes in my dresser, more toiletries in my bathroom, more of his coffee in my kitchen.

One day I realized I was thinking of the apartment as ours instead of mine, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

His equipment cases are stacked neatly in what used to be my spare room and is now his studio. The morning light in there is perfect for editing, he says, and watching him work at the desk I helped him pick out makes the whole place feel more like home than it ever did when I lived here alone.

"I still can't believe it," he says, collapsing onto the couch with a satisfied groan.

His tie is loose around his neck, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it all evening.

He looks like success, if success were a person who just spent three hours charming potential clients and collectors.

"Believe what? That you're incredibly talented and people are recognizing it?" I settle beside him, close enough that our thighs touch. "Because I could have told you that months ago."

"The commission thing, mostly. Morrison & Associates, Jesse. That's..." He shakes his head like he's still processing it. "That could change everything."

"Good change?"

"The best change. Steady income, high-profile work, the kind of client that leads to more clients." He turns to face me fully. "I could actually build something here. A real business, not just project-to-project scrambling."

There's excitement in his voice, but also something deeper. The sound of someone who's finally found solid ground after years of floating.

"Sounds like you're putting down roots," I say.

"Yeah. I think I am." He reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together. "Is that okay with you?"

"Austin." I bring our joined hands to my lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. "You could put down an entire forest and I'd be happy."

We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the kind that feels full instead of empty. Through the windows, the city hums its nighttime song—traffic and distant music and the occasional siren. Sounds that used to make me feel lonely now feel like a lullaby.

"I've been thinking," I say eventually, because the thought has been building in my chest all evening, watching him in his element, seeing him claim his place in the world. "About school."

His eyebrows rise with interest. "Yeah?"

"I want to do it. For real this time. Apply for next year, get my shit together, actually follow through." I take a breath, gathering courage. "You've shown me what it looks like to chase something you want. To not let fear make your decisions for you."

The smile that spreads across his face could power the entire building. "That's amazing. What changed your mind?"

"You did. Watching you take risks, seeing you build something from nothing..." I shrug, suddenly shy. "I want to build something too. I want to be someone who tries."

"You're already someone who tries. You've been trying every day for seven years."

"That was survival. This would be living."

He squeezes my hand, and there's pride in his eyes that makes my chest tight.

"Why wait?" he asks. "Why not apply for this fall?"

I roll my eyes. "It's not that easy. There are deadlines, and transcripts, and essays, and—"

"What if I told you that might not be a problem?"

Something in his tone makes me study his face more carefully. There's mischief there.

I narrow my eyes. "What did you do?"

"I may have..." He pauses, biting his lip. "I may have filled out an application for you. Just in case. Just so it would be there if you decided you wanted it."

I stare at him. "You what?"

"I didn't submit it," he says quickly. "I wouldn't do that without asking. But I have it ready. All the forms, all the requirements. I even wrote a draft of your personal statement, though obviously you'd want to rewrite that in your own words."

"Austin..." I don't know whether to laugh or cry. "How did you even—"

"I got your transcripts from your high school.

Called in a favor with Jamie to get some personal information.

Spent way too many hours researching programs that would be good fits.

" He's talking faster now, nervous energy spilling out.

"I know it's presumptuous, and maybe overstepping, but I just thought—if you ever decided you wanted to try, all the obstacles would already be cleared away. "

I'm quiet for so long that his confidence starts to waver.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped. I just wanted to make it easier for you to say yes to yourself."

Instead of answering with words, I kiss him. Hard and grateful and full of every emotion I don't have names for yet.

"So?" he asks when we break apart for air. "Want to see what I wrote about you?"

"Yes. But first I need to tell you something."

He waits, patient and attentive.

"I remember you," I say, echoing words I spoke once already. "From before. From high school."

His face goes soft. "You do?"

"Not everything. Not clearly. But pieces.

The way you used to look at me sometimes when you thought I wasn't paying attention.

How you'd find reasons to be in the same places I was.

" I touch his cheek, feeling the slight roughness of stubble there.

"I remember thinking you were too good for the rest of us.

Too smart, too talented, too everything. "

"Jesse..."

"I remember you," I repeat. "Even when I think I don't, even when the details are fuzzy—I know you. My heart knows you. It always has."

He closes his eyes and leans into my touch, and I think about how far we've both traveled to end up here. How many wrong turns and dead ends and years of running from things we should have been running toward.

But we're here now. In my living room that's become our living room, talking about futures that include each other.

"Show me the application," I say. "Let's see what you think I'm capable of."

And as he reaches for his laptop, already pulling up files and folders full of possibilities, I realize that for the first time in my life, I'm not afraid of what comes next.

Because now I remember who I am.

I remember me.

THE END