Page 22 of The Photograph

“Thanks for coming over … and cooking.”

“The pleasure was all mine, believe me.”

And I swoon just a little.

After he’s gone, I take Mitzi out for her night-time pee and Marla returns and bitches to me about her boyfriend and her clients and everything else in her life. And I listen because I haven’t seen that much of her: She’s out most nights at fightsor dealing with some MMA-related injury. Around midnight, I sneak off to bed and lie staring at the ceiling. A shiver rolls down my spine, and I turn over and bite my pillow.Goddammit, he’snice.I like him.Tonight was just what I needed. Good company. Wine.As I’m drifting off, I remember that we didn’t talk about the photos or his day at all. He didn’t ask me what my type was either.

Maybe he didn’t want to know.

9

ALEX

“Alex! Alex! Have you seen my car keys?” My mom’s voice drifts up the stairs.

I stop wrapping one end of my tie around the other. “On the table, Mom!”

As I examine my reflection in the mirror, a flush of humiliation creeps up my cheeks. Des’s deep sigh when I called him. The “Look, Alex …” I got from him. I practically had to beg him to see me. And that apartment? If anything, he feels more out of reach now. I didn’t tell him that I still live at home: How much more embarrassing would that have been? And howamI still here? Saving for my own place seemed sensible two years ago, but now it’s like a straitjacket.

“What time are you back this evening?”

“Not sure!”

“Well, don’t be late for dinner! Aunt Caroline is coming over with your cousins.”

My mom’s sister and her whole family. I groan, alongside a no doubt busy day at work, I’ve got relations to deal with tonight with all the inevitable questions.

“No problem, Mom!”

Grimacing in the mirror, I drop my chin on my chest. Come on, Alex, all you need is some easy platitudes about work. Ducking and diving, right?

My unbuttoned fly catches my eye, and I pull out my phone and take a picture. It’s always when I’m getting dressed, my clothes in disarray in the mirror or when I’m looking down. I take a few more photos of my open pants, my shirt with one side tucked in, my hand on the band of my boxers, the undone laces on my shoes, my collar hanging off my shoulder. What would Des look like half undressed? Despite his initial grumpy response to my call, I had a great time last night. I want to take pictures of Des staring down at his own body like he’s the voyeur. A shiver runs down my spine like someone ran a finger down it.

My eyes widen when I see the time on my phone. Shit! I tuck my shirt in and race down the stairs, and just as my mother’s voice reaches me from the kitchen, I slam out of the front door, taking off at a trot. It was late when I got back last night, and I can’t bear more of thewhere were you last nightandwho did you seequestions. My parents’ worry is like a bruise that spreads across their skin and mine.

As I jog to the train station, I’m cataloguing all the work I did yesterday. My job as a research analyst is to formulate views on companies for more senior analysts, and yesterday I started looking at Des’s company and then dove farther into the security space. There are opportunities for investment in the tech field, but it’s not something I know much about, and I’ve seen enough analysts miscalculate to understand how badly you can burn your fingers in my job. But if I could wrap my head around how the technology works and what’s on the horizon, there could be something interesting there. I make a mental note to read some journals and industry papers. I’m sure I could pick Des’s brains.

As I approach the station, the familiar hoot echoes down the line and I break into a run, making it onto the platform, heart pounding, as the train pulls in.Goddammit. I don’t need to be late now along with everything else. My heart’s not really in the job I do, and I think my supervisor has worked that out, but my dad wanted me to work in finance and so here I am, doing the identical goddamn role he started in. Somehow in our house, my dad’s agenda always prevails. He’s a successful finance guy, and on the committee at our local synagogue. He thinks it’s my job to uphold the family name.

The train sways as I walk to my usual car, number five. The same people sit here every day, and the usual good-morning smiles I get from everyone who glances up makes me warm inside. The good-looking man in seat thirty-six gives me a nod like he always does. I had a crush on him for the longest time until one day I got on the train and a woman was sitting next to him who was clearly his girlfriend or his wife. The very next day I signed up to Grindr. I fantasized about this guy for a year, and it turned out he was straight. It made me realize I needed a better way of secretly finding people and exploring. Suddenly the memory of the exploring I did last summer and what happened when my parents found out burns brightly behind my eyelids.

As I slip into the blue plastic seat, my phone buzzes in my pocket, so I pull it out, stomach fluttering when I see a text is waiting for me:

You can’t hide forever.

And I gape at it.Ohfuck.What the hell is he doing, messaging me now like I conjured him? Even after all this time. Scrolling back up, I study the message he sent me a month ago:

Do you even care what happened to me?

Like he thinks I don’t know? Ugh.My phone buzzes again as another text appears:

You arrogant little shit.

Just don’t respond.But my fingers are flying across the screen before I can stop myself.

GO AWAY!

I type in shouty caps, then,

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