Page 115 of Breaking Away

“Can I see?” he asks.

I bite my lip.

Sure, he’s snuck up and seen me edit photos one time when I was in the dark, but this is different. I’m handing my work over voluntarily. He’ll have time and space to judge it.

Will he think the compositions are funny? That I shouldn’t have blurred some backgrounds? That…

“May I?”

The doubt in my head recedes at his eagerness. I know it will come back later, but in this moment between us, I find myself offering him my phone.

He takes it, but before he can look, there’s a knock on the door. Hughes’ voice rings out.

“The team is in a food coma. I kicked them out before they fell asleep and drooled on your couches. I would stay, but I’mmeeting Becka… or was it Brianne? Brittany? Hmm. I don’t know. Bye, Kavi!”

I go to the door, but I’m not fast enough. Hughes is disappearing around the corner. I glimpse his brief backwards wave.

Looking over at Dmitri, I see his eyes are glued to my phone screen. He’s scrolling.

Okayyyyyy…

I’m chewing the inside of my cheek. I posted ten photos to the Wings’ social media account, which is a lot but also isn’t a lot at the same time. He reaches the end and then holds my phone out to me. “I want to see more. Show me all of your work.”

“It’s boring,” I reason.

“Not for me. And no, it’s not.”

“… Are you sure?”

“Show me, Princess. Come on.”

Can I? I gulp as I describe where the hidden photography folder is on my phone.

“There’s a lot on there,” I caution. “Thousands of photos. You don’t have to look at each one, of course.”

He sits on the bench at the foot of his bed, patting the seat beside him. Mutely I join him and watch. He’s studying everything. There’s no skimming or rushing. Each photograph is examined as if there’s going to be a test later.

It’s mostly portraits, people caught in moments, whether it’s mid-bite or mid-laugh or mid-emotion, before a polite society mask comes back on. There’s the old grandma tanning wrinkles in the sun, and a woman in a beanie on a park bench with her eyes closed, covering her face as if needing to meditate. A man takes a frisbee to the park to play with his friends. Two fourteen-year-old kids bicker, about to break up on the train.

I want to ask Dmitri what he thinks, though I don’t think I can bear to hear the answer. My limbs are twitchy. Almost like Ineed to run or hide, or to pry open his head because Idowant to know his opinions on my work, maybe more than a little.

It takes time, but he reaches the end of the folder. I see he’s about to scroll through it again, but my hand shoots out. I touch his arm. He glances over abruptly as if remembering I’m here, as if my work has the power to take him somewhere else.

His gaze sharpens on me. “Kavi Basra,” he says slowly. “You are a photographer.”

“I—” My voice is weak. Am I? Is that what he thinks? “Wait. Can you repeat that again? Please?”

“You were born to do this. You are an incredible photographer, Kavi Basra. Your work moves me.”

Is he being serious? Completely honest?

Dmitri is always blunt.

You are a photographer.

The words make me feel a bit drunk, and more than a bit cherished.

I hug him, throwing myself forward. He catches me, arms tightening around my waist.

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