Page 47 of Mr. Picture Perfect
His calmness. His contemplativeness. His solitude.
He reallydoeslook like a displaced demigod, hidden away in this town, with an unknowable story that stretches deep into a dark and protected past. A young man of many mysteries. Alone in the world in so many ways. Looking for a place to truly belong, no hope in his heart that such a place can possibly exist.
I realize I’m likely projecting a lot of myself onto him.
My own aloofness.
My own sense of craving a place to belong.
But there’s something beautiful about the way I find him here, alone with his thoughts and fears, as stripped down as he can be while still wearing all his clothes.
The literal gems that artists mine for in their day-to-day lives.
My heart stirs, but not for the reason of thinking about the way he kissed me or how he looks like in a Speedo.
Before I know it, I’ve pulled my phone out and lifted it to my face to take a picture. I attempt to fit Cole’s moment into a perfect, succinct frame, compelled to capture him precisely the way he is right now in this raw and genuine state.
I press the button.
The flash—which I didn’t realize was on—goes off, shattering the moment with its intrusive light.
Cole looks up, surprised. “Noah?”
I lower my phone at once, ashamed. “S-Sorry.”
“Did you just take a picture of me?”
I stammer, unable to produce a response. Then I fight it back and ask the real question: “Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why do you ask? Oh.” He peers at his own phone, as if forgetting he’s holding it. “Right. The call. It … It was nothing. Just Nan asking me about, um …” He rubs his head, trying to come up with something. It’s obvious. “She wasn’t, uh, sure where I kept something. She’s doing some work in the garden.”
“In the dark?”
“She … likes working at night, I guess.”
“Why are you lying?”
Cole’s eyes snap to mine, appearing stunned. “What do you mean? I just … I …” Suddenly his expression softens. “I just noticed you’re not as shy in front of me as you are around others.”
I frown at him, thrown off by his gentle tone of voice. “Huh?”
“You speak your mind. Unafraid. And that must mean you feel more comfortable around me,” he concludes. “That is a fact which happened to escape my attention until just now.”
I can feel myself shrinking. My heart races indignantly. “I’m … I’m not more comfortable around you than other people.”
“You sure about that?”
“I’m actually totally uncomfortable around you.”
Cole appears to be amused by that. “Yet here you are, coming out of the restaurant to … snap a shot of me while checking on my nonexistent phone call …?”
My face reddens. This is going all wrong. Why does he look on the brink of laughing right now? “I—I came out here …” I start, choke on my words, then finish, “to check on you, because they all started talking about blood, and that’s obviously why you made up a fake phone call to get away.”
My words stun Cole.
Visibly.
Did he really think it wasn’t that obvious, the real reason he got up from the table and fled?
