Page 13 of The Photograph

But my phone has other ideas. When I open it up, messages light up the screen. There’s a text from Felix, and a string of drunken WhatsApps from George, telling me they’re going clubbing and begging me to come. A message from someone named Jack, saying he’d love to meet up again.I have no idea who he is.And two suggestive texts fromgreatabsREAL!I scroll over to Grindr. Has anyone else messaged my profile? I flick through a couple of lewd messages and then a head of dark curls pops up.Alex.Oh my God, it’s a picture. My heart thumps in my chest. And shit, I sent him that photo of George silhouetted in the bathroom door. I snort. Frankly, I’m surprised he’s responded at all but …

What?

What is this?

The black-and-white photograph is shot close to, from above. A guy’s stomach and a head of hair. I peer at it.Son of a bitch. Some guy is kissing down someone’s abs. Or possibly something else? Is this anoral sexpicture? The hair is messy and dark, eyelashes and a nose pressed into skin: That’s it. I can’t tell if it’s Alex’s head or his body that someone else is working their way down.Holy shit.

I lift my head, taking in the black sky and the illuminated squares of the apartment block of the building behind mine. This could be a stock shot, not something Alex took. Why would he send me this? It has a classic one-night-stand vibe, and didn’t he say he didn’t do that?

Come on, Des, a little voice in my head says,you sent him a naked picture of a guy going into your bathroom.

So, does this mean hedoeshook up with guys? I stare down at my phone. What was the whole nonsense about taking it slow? If I’m looking at Alex’s head, then whoever he was with took the photo and shared it with him, or else it’s Alex’s stomach in the picture. The last thing I expected was he’d respond in kind. I thought he’d decide I was an asshole and block me.

Is he expecting a reaction? Do I want to give it to him? Was he lying when he said he likes to take things slow and was thinking I would push?

Ugh. Either way, this smacks of game-playing to me.

I’m tempted to block him, I really am, but dammit now I’m curious.

6

DES

My sister Marla pushes into my apartment, her blonde tousled curls so like my own. Clinging to her body are bright pink jeans and a white T-shirt with gold writing on that I don’t want to stare too closely at. A fake designer handbag adorns her arm, and her skin is practically orange: What is this contouring that women are so fond of nowadays?

“C’mon, Dessy, you can’t put me up for a few days?” she whines, waving a hand as I catch a glimpse of violet nails with crystals embedded in the tips.

Fuck. My loose cannon of a younger sister. “I really can’t …”

She flounces past me into my open-plan lounge and flings herself onto my couch. Mitzi skitters joyfully over the floor, red ribbon and long fur bouncing:A new person has arrived in my territory!

“Sweetie!” Marla croons. “How’s my baby?” Scooping Mitzi up, she buries her face in her coat. “You wanna go walkies with Marla? Hunh?”

“Don’t promise things to her you’re not going to deliver,” I say, and she scowls at me over Mitzi’s panting face. The contrastof her orange face next to my dog, who is the cutest thing in the world, makes a laugh rise up inside me but I squash it down.

“You’ve got such a well-paid job.” She swings her arm around. “You could acknowledge and look after your siblings once in a while.”

“I send Mom money, Marla.”

“You don’t give anything to me.”

“Why’s that, I wonder?”

My younger sister and I have a somewhat tempestuous relationship, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary for my family. Someone is always falling out with somebody else or trying to get their way. We are a bunch of drama llamas. That’s why I’d like a peaceful romantic relationship: My family creates enough theatrics to last a lifetime. And Marla isn’t averse to dabbling in all sorts of things: gambling, alcohol, even drugs. Most of this is encouraged by a parade of willful boyfriends who want her to pay for stuff. She’s the spitting image of my mom, with the behavior to match.

“I’m up to my ears in debt, and you’re sitting in this fancy-ass apartment …” she starts.

“Also funded by debt. You think I don’t have a mortgage?”

This doesn’t suit her narrative of the wealthy older brother who doesn’t give her a cent, so her eyes narrow as she changes tack.

“You’re paid so much more than me, Des, and it’s only for a few days. Just somewhere to hide. Something to tide me over.”

Now it’s my turn to narrow my eyes, and I fold my arms on my chest.

“Tide you over?Hide?”

“I’m broke until payday.”

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