Page 57 of Most Likely to Match
“Am I allowed to hug you?” I ask.
She opens her arms. I spent so much time in her art room, in the darkroom. It was the place I could go to escape, to be quiet, to think— usually about Chloe. My formative…if not years, then time, was spent in her classroom. So even though we’ve never hugged before, it feels like we’ve always been huggers.
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen any of your photographs inNational Geographicyet,” she teases.
Once upon a time, I wanted to be a wildlife photographer. Until Irealized that would mean spending a shit ton of time out in the bush. “I’m a therapist now. But I dabble in headshot photography once in a while.”
Shetsks.“Headshots? You’ve got more than that in you.”
My cheeks heat, and hopefully all she reads into it is modesty, and not the memory of the photos on my camera from my most recent morning with Chlo.
“Dean’s photography is beautiful,” Chloe says, popping up beside me like a hot whack-a-mole. Mrs. Rivkin eyes Chloe with the full use of her glasses. “You probably don’t remember me,” Chloe says, her hand bumping mine as she shifts closer. “I had grade nine art with you, but I’m not what you’d call artistically talented.”
“Oh, I remember you.” Mrs. Rivkin reached out to my family that summer after it all happened. She asked if I would help her take down her class for the year. I spent most of that time talking rather than helping, but I think that was the point. So yeah, Mrs. Rivkin remembers Chloe.
Her gaze lands on Chloe’s hand, her arm resting comfortably along mine. Her eyebrow slowly arches. I take a step away, the cool air between us made cooler by Mrs. Rivkin’s cold stare. I’m embarrassed, despite my age and full acceptance of my choices, at being caught in this casual touch with my former secret friends with benefits who fed me to the high school equivalent of rabid wolves.
The embarrassment is compounded only by the shame that follows when Chloe turns to me, her concern and confusion about my sudden distance a heavy weight against the side of my face.
“I guess the darkroom isn’t around anymore,” I say, attempting a joke to break the weird tension that has settled over all of us.
Mrs. Rivkin’s eyes soften as she shakes her head. “It’s still here. I don’t teach film anymore, but we use it for photography club.” She points down one of the halls we affectionately dubbed the “tradies department” as students, where shop class and the now defunct home ec and— oddly— the photography class were. “Go check it out. I have to run to a staff meeting but…” She opens her arms again, and I hug her with just as much gratitude as last time; the only way I can really express my gratitude for her. “It was good to see you, Dean.” For Chloe, she barely manages to show her teeth in a smile.
We walk in silence to my old class. I never noticed it when I was a student, but the whole building smells like perfume and body spray. It’s better than BO, but it’s especially strong down this hall, as if we’re passing through a recently sprayed cloud of it. The photography classroom is a clear-aired reprieve. Instead of desks, the class is set up with workstations covered in sleeping laptops and computer monitors. Print trimmers line one wall, high-end laser printers another. The room is haloed by shelves of cameras, lenses, tripods, soft boxes, and umbrellas. Some in locked glass cupboards, others piled indelicately into bins.
“Can you show me the darkroom?” Chloe asks. “I’ve never been in one.”
The darkroom door is an unlabeled gray door that could pass for a supply closet if it wasn’t for the bare bulb red light installed at eye-level next to it that lights up when the room is in use. As the light is out now, I open the door. Automatically, I reach for the safelight switch. It’s still in the same place it always was, bathing the room in an eerie red glow.
Chloe wanders around the room, her arms tucked over her chest like she’s afraid to touch anything.
“Nothing’s being processed right now,” I say, giving her permission.
“Show me how it works?”
I mimic all the important steps. How we have to check for the developer, stop, and fix chemicals; use the enlarger to choose the negative we want to print; the importance of a test strip; the benefits of different exposure times. I haven’t had the opportunity to use a darkroom much since I graduated from high school, but it’s like riding a bike, or a skateboard, as it were.
“My favorite part was the drying,” I say, tapping at the mesh screens. “It was cool to watch the image appear as it was washed, but I always found something new in it once it was dry. Like watching it grow up.”
Chloe is all crimson and shadows. She takes my hand, pulls it around her waist, nuzzles her nose into my neck. “I wish I could have watched you do this when we were students,” she says into my skin. The longing in her voice reverbs against my jugular, down my spine.
Even with all the chemicals safely stored in their cabinets, an acrid, vinegary smell hangs over the room. It sours even more. Because shecouldhave watched me do this when we were students, and she and I both know why she didn’t.
Gently, I pull away from her. “I think I need to get out of here,” I say.
“Okay.” She lets me lead her out. The exit to the track is a few steps away from the classroom door. Not until we’re outside, the door slamming behind us, can I actually breathe again.
“Are you okay? Dean?” She takes over, leading me to the empty bleachers that face the track. A woman pushes a stroller on the far side but doesn’t pay us any attention as our steps clang up to the top of the metal seats. “Hey.” She takes my hands in hers. “Breathe, okay?”
“I am breathing.” I gasp, though. So maybe not.
“I know,” she soothes. She kisses my knuckles, one for each letter, one for each exhale. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says. “I never should have made you come to this.”
I shake my head, not trusting myself with words. Because I appreciate her apology and I know what she’s trying to say, but also, again, it’s not really about her. The sun is warm on my face, the metal seat hard and uncomfortable, the smell of fresh cut grass a welcome replacement to the chemicals in the darkroom. I was numb before, my only awareness of it that I’m not numbnow.
“We don’t have to go to the reunion,” she says, gesturing back to the school. Because, of course, the reunion will be held next weekend in our former high school auditorium.
I shake my head, swallowing, though my mouth is dry. “No, it’s fine. I want to go.” A lie but also the closest I can get to the truth. I don’twantto go, but I will go. I have to.
