Page 44 of The Photograph

His brown eyes meet mine, and it’s like being plugged into a socket. The sky is reflecting the buildings across his eyes, the black center fading out almost to orange near the edges where a dark circle frames the color.

“Tell me more about what happened with George,” he says, straightening in his seat.

Sucking on my coffee spoon, I stare off up the street. “You have to understand that George is not that interested in my thoughts or my life: it was all about how I’d wounded him. It’s always all about him.”

“You sound bitter.”

My relationship with George is slippery around the edges like I’m on constantly shifting sands. How do I explain this to Alex without coming across like a dick? Unfortunately, there’s no more dog shenanigans to help me avoid spilling it all out.

“I tried so hard with him. I was a good boyfriend, I think.” I squint over Alex’s head. “And he took and took and cheated and cheated. But somehow, he still made me feel it was all my fault, that I wanted too much from him. And he’s still trying to do that.”

I peer at my salad and pop a tomato in my mouth. “He said last night that I was wrong to want monogamy and that no one is faithful.”

Alex snorts. “That sounds kind of crazy. I don’t know the guy, but at the very least you’d want a shared sense of responsibility and an honest discussion about something like that.”

That sort of openness is so far away from what George and I have that I want to laugh.

“How long were you with him for, as, um, boyfriends?” he adds.

“About nine months.”

“He did all that cheating in nine months?” His mouth falls open.

“Yeah. He’s the type of guy that, if you said, I’m really pissed, he wouldn’t listen but just say, ‘Oh, it’s always about you!’”

Alex laughs. “That sounds familiar. A girl I dated was like that. A proper Jewish princess. I shouldn’t call her that, but she was. She was a real charmer, and my family loved her, but she was so demanding. Our relationship was all about what I could do for her. She kept wanting things she could post on Instagram about what her wonderful boyfriend had done for her. It was stressful coming up with ideas to please her and then wondering whether I’d passed the test or jumped over some ridiculously high bar.”

And in that one story, he’s summed up perfectly where I am with George. But my gut still burns: He met up with another guy last night, and some girl had Alex’s time and attention. I’m not used to feeling jealous. Perhaps like that asshole in Jake’s, she had even had her hand on his … The thought forces my back ramrod straight.

“How long were you with her?”

“Oh, a couple of months. Is George the guy you sent a photograph of that first time?” Alex asks.

I laugh, nodding. “He was my last hookup.”

How funny that I was so pissed off then, thinking Alex was playing some game with me.

Something is bubbling behind Alex’s eyes, and he gives me a wolfish grin I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.

“Nice ass,” he says.

And with all the talk of a girlfriend and the guy in Jake’s, the photograph of the tousled hair and what I assume was his stomach drifts into my mind. He’s never talked to me about that guy. Who washe? It doesn’t seem right to quiz him now when I’ve cheered him up after everything that happened to him last night, but there’s a story there, I’m sure of it.

19

DES

The weekend after the fiasco at Crush, I’m snuggled on my couch with Mitzi when a text from George pops up on my phone.

So, do I get to meet this hero of yours?

I drum my fingers on the arm of the couch and stare up at the ceiling. Ugh.

Do you want to?

I type back. Why is he texting me? Has he sent this as a friend, or is he messaging me because he fancies creating a fresh drama? Perhaps he wants some gossip about how his boyfriend dumped him and howawfulit was to be forced into meeting the new guy. Another message pops up:

We’re friends, yeah?

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