Page 39 of Finding Mr. July

I t’s one of those perfect fall evenings when I pull into Jonathan’s driveway with portabella-and-goat-cheese burgers and hand-cut fries in a paper to-go bag from my favorite place.

It’s completely calm, the air is crisp and chilly, and the twilight stars are already competing with the waning moon for brightness as the sun sets beyond the Olympics, leaving a cloudless sky behind.

My insides contrast starkly with the calm around me.

I tell myself it’s because so much hinges on tonight, but the truth is also in the crumpled tissues I left behind in my room at home.

I have feelings for Jonathan that I wish I didn’t have.

Feelings I both want and don’t want him to know about, and that I both want and don’t want him to reciprocate.

Feelings I may soon have to forget about.

I inhale deeply and press my free hand to my stomach.

But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll allow those feelings to guide me. Provided we can move on from yesterday’s discord, that is.

Jonathan opens the door slowly when I knock as if he’s not sure he should be letting me in. “Hi.” He grabs Sir Leonard’s collar to temper the big beast’s eager greeting while I step onto the front stoop.

“Hi.” I hold up the bag of food and lift my brow. “Peace offering?”

His shoulders relax, and when he’s sure his canine companion is in check, he opens the door wider and steps back to allow me inside. “That’s not…” He scratches the side of his head.

I kick off my boots and hand him the bag so I can give Sir Leonard some love. “That’s not what?” I glance up at him as I ruffle Sir Leonard’s ears.

“Necessary. A peace offering, I mean. I’m glad you’re here.”

I stand. “Yeah?”

He nods. Reaches for my hand.

I take it. At least he’s not mad about yesterday, then. But whether that means he’s thought about posing for me or not remains to be seen. “I’m glad I’m here, too. Hungry, but glad.”

Finally, he smiles. I swear the way his eyes crinkle as that flash of mirth bursts forth could make even an award-winning comedian feel accomplished.

It’s a rare gem with magical powers. My nerves calm, my insides warm, and my mind forgets for a moment that this can’t be forever.

It makes me want to nestle into his arms and claim squatters’ rights.

“Let’s eat. Come on.” He takes the stairs in five long strides, and to my surprise, Sir Leonard keeps up.

“This guy has a new lease on life all of a sudden,” I say.

“He does, right? We’re getting along. I think he’s happy.”

I dig in my bag for one of Morris’s cookies that I stole from his stash. “Can he have a treat?”

Jonathan lights up. “You brought that for him? That’s really sweet.”

I shrug. He doesn’t need to know it’s to help me feel better about the less than generous thoughts I’ve harbored toward Sir Leonard these past few days. “So he knows I’m a friend.”

Jonathan pauses for a beat but then moves around the island to set the brown paper bag down on the counter. “And is that what you are?”

The hesitant note in his voice commands my attention. It’s a wolf of a question camouflaged in sheep’s clothing.

Thankfully, Sir Leonard chooses that moment to finish his cookie and come looking for more. He licks my hands and bumps my leg with his nose. I squat and take hold of his face. “Are you my friend, big guy? Yes, we’re such good friends,” I coo. Then I join Jonathan at the counter. “He says yes.”

If he finds my answer incomplete, he doesn’t let on. Instead he bumps his hip to mine. “Glad you’re here,” he says. “I missed you last night.”

I lean my head on his shoulder and within seconds he’s folded me to him like I wanted earlier. “Me too.”

As we eat, we avoid the topic of the calendar altogether.

It’s still there, a ghost lingering behind us, but in our candlelit bubble of food, wine, and casual touches, we keep it at bay as long as we can.

We talk about Wayne’s new square-dancing course, Jude’s impending move, Ava’s chances of a tennis scholarship, and Sir Leonard’s improving sleep habits.

We compare notes on office gossip, agree on a new restaurant to try, and squabble over what’s the superior shape of a french fry.

I make a good argument for waffle-cut fries I think, but then Jonathan promptly shoves a couple of hand-cut ones into my mouth, which finishes off both the conversation and the food.

The ghost moves closer.

Jonathan leans back in his seat but keeps looking at me.

In the background, Bonnie Raitt’s low voice croons about how love has no pride, and for a moment, I allow myself to get lost in the notes.

If I could choose, we’d simply share a meal and pretend there’s nothing wedged between us, but I know what’s coming.

There’s only one topic left unaddressed, and the evening has been building toward it whether we want it to or not.

So, when the final notes of the song ring out, I brace myself before I say, “I haven’t been able to find another model. Robert is my best chance—he says he might call tomorrow—but I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”

He nods slowly. “I was wondering.”

“The timeline is too tight. I’ve left messages with people, but the chances of anyone coming through are—”

“Not great,” he fills in.

“Right.”

A new song starts—one I don’t recognize. Its rhythm is faster, more upbeat, and with that as a boost, I decide I have nothing to lose.

“Look, I don’t want to fight, but I have to ask you again. You’re my only hope of getting the calendar done in time. Or at all for that matter. Will you please reconsider?”

Jonathan looks down at his hands, squeezing one with the other. The corner of his lip is caught between his teeth, and all of a sudden, I know he’s going to say no again, which means I’ll be done, and I can’t let that happen.

“Do you not want me to win?” I blurt. “Is that why you won’t do it?”

His head jerks back. “What kind of question is that?”

I think about Jude’s suggestion that helping me isn’t in Jonathan’s interest. “A fair one,” I say. If you’re as into me as I’m into you.

“I think it’s the opposite of fair,” he says. “The only answer that doesn’t make me an asshole is that of course I want you to win. We’ve put in all this work.” He gestures around us as if our models—human and canine—are here with us.

“Then there should be no problem.”

He scoffs, his head slumping to his chest. “You know it’s more com—”

He swallows the word I know is on his tongue.

Complicated.

So maybe Jude was right. “If you truly want me to win, you know I can’t do it without you. Please be in the calendar. For me.”

“For you,” he repeats. “But not for us?” He peers up at me. “No, don’t answer that. I’m sorry. I knew this was the deal.”

I reach over and take his hand. I can’t help myself.

But I also know I need to steer this conversation away from where it’s ended up.

Give him a different out. “If you’re worried about people seeing you and judging you for modeling, we can hide your face.

It’s nighttime anyway so if your face was in shade or you were backlit…

I don’t know. You’re the expert on that stuff. ”

Finally, he weaves his fingers through mine. “That wouldn’t be very summery.”

I consider this, and then I have an idea.

“If it’s for July, we could add in fireworks.

” Suddenly the vision is completely clear in my mind.

It’s an artsy shoot with Jonathan lit up in relief by a colorful sky, Sir Leonard seated in front of him.

It would almost make a butterfly shape where dog and man are the body and the fireworks the wings.

“Hmm.” Jonathan’s forehead wrinkles. “Maybe up on the rooftop,” he says quietly. “It would require more editing than the others. And it might look a bit out of place.”

“I mean, I’d also be willing to have you pose naked on the beach, but you know…” I smirk.

“I have scruples.”

“Yeah that.” I study him closely as the rigidity in his face gives way to something more animated. “Does that mean you’ll do it?” I ask carefully.

“Who would take this photo?”

“Me. If you let me.”

He sighs. Shakes his head in a dejected shrug. I hold my breath.

“Fine,” he says. “As long as my face isn’t front and center.”

“Really?” I gasp, jumping out of my seat.

“Really. Let’s do it.” He lets me pull him up, too, and when I hug him tight, he laughs, his chest rumbling against mine.

I retreat a few inches so I can see him. “Right now before you change your mind?”

He nods. “Let’s get the stuff.”

The temperature has dropped further when we get out onto Jonathan’s deck, and the stars have competition from the lit-up skyline beyond.

It doesn’t take too long to set up the tripod and light stand that will create the effect Jonathan will later attribute to fireworks when editing.

Even though I’ll be taking the picture, I let him adjust the settings for shutter speed, f-stop, and all the other terms I’ve picked up while working with him.

I’ve heard them, I know they’re photography related, but that’s where my knowledge ends.

I also pose where he’ll be standing so he can make sure the whole thing is framed right.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Here’s the remote. You’ll make sure the light is positioned for the right effect, give me a count, and click here.”

“What about Sir Leonard?”

“Don’t worry about him. Whoever he was with when he was little trained him well. He’ll sit when I tell him.”

“Cool.” I look from Jonathan to the setup and back. “I guess there’s only one more thing then. Clothes off.”

“Nuh-uh. Shirt only. My legs will be behind Lenny anyway?”

“Lenny? No, you can’t call him that.”

Jonathan pulls his black Henley over his head. “Why not? He’s my dog.”

“It’s undignified. He’s clearly a knighted noble.” I scratch Sir Leonard’s head. “See, he agrees with me. Besides, have you never read Of Mice and Men ?”

Jonathan pauses. “I forgot about that. You’ve got a point. Damn, it’s cold tonight.”