Page 28 of Mr. Picture Perfect
After managing to wipe away her troubled expression, she comes into my room and takes a seat on the edge of the bed near the desk. “I know, sweetheart, I know, ever since you were little. For some people, it’s easier to come out of their shells. For others, not so much. But you know what? It doesn’t matter which kind of person you are. Just do thingsyourway, alright? Even if your way involves stutterin’ and shyness and speakin’ fluent Gremlish.”
I eye her. “Now you’re just making up words.”
“You’ll be fine.” She puts a hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze before rising from my bed. “Now I’m gonna leave you to it. Try not to stay up too late, alright? Oh, and …” She stops at the door, a finger tapping her chin. “When you go there tomorrow … over to Cole’s … could you maybe tell … um … no, could you maybe say … well …” She shakes her head. “Never mind. Goodnight.”
“Mom?” I try, but she’s already seen herself out with nothing more to say, gently closing the door. I’m left staring at the back of my door, wondering why she got so weird about everything.
Then I try to imagine myself playing with Cole as a kid.
With gorgeous-eyed Cole Harding and his striking smile and perfect teeth, who I had always assumed would have nothing in the world to do with someone like me.
Why can’t I remember it?
I turn back to my desk, dazed, adjust my glasses, and unbury my notebook, revealing the nearly blank sheet of paper in front of me. It waits for me to fill it with bold and interesting questions.
I don’t suspect I’m going to be getting much sleep tonight.
It feels like the morning comes with the blink of an eye, and at once I’m at my destination. Cole Harding’s house, like most places in Spruce, is well within walking distance from my own. I make my way up the front pathway, tug on the strap of my camera (an older one of my dad’s I brought from home, since I haven’t had time to run to the office and grab a replacement for the one that got smashed at the festival), swallow down the bile made from my anxieties, and finally bring my finger to the doorbell.
The second the chime goes off, I hear a dog barking. That’s soon followed by someone calling out to “shut that dang yapper up”, then a harsh bumping noise, and finally glass shattering.
I stare at the door, eyes wide.
Was this a bad time?
The barking goes away. I hear the shuffling of footsteps. Then I stand there for a while longer as I listen to brushing noises and a few muttered words I can’t make out. “I said I’msorry,” someone rather sharply replies, promptly followed by a soothing hush, then more silence.
I bite my lip, worried.
Is this normal?
Just when I’m about to give up and hightail it in the opposite direction, pretending I never showed up to do this at all, the door swings open and a cheery Cole appears. “Good morning!”
I take him in.
Of course he is immaculate.
I would have expected him to look at least alittlebit sleepy or unprepared. But I clearly underestimated him yet again. In a crisp plaid shirt and khaki shorts with a belt, with his hair cleanly parted and face freshly shaven, Cole looks ready for a television spot or first date. He’d make a lasting impression.
Did I say first date?
This isn’t a date.
This is an interview. A professional interview for my job.
Besides, I shouldn’t have expected less. He knew I intended to bring my camera to get some candids of him in his house. Of course he made an effort to look his best. Everyone in Spruce may see the photos we take today.
Still, his appearance makes me feel like I should have given a lot more thought to my own. I feel underdressed in my loose shirt, cargo shorts, and baseball cap. Why am I even wearing a baseball cap in the first place? Because the colors match my shirt? I don’t even like baseball.
“Please excuse the broken vase,” says Cole with a wince. “My dog got … alittletoo excited when she heard someone at the door. We basically starve her for attention all day long. It’s terrible. I’m a bad dog daddy. She’s been contained, no longer a threat, any and all foreseeable vase-breaking crises have been averted. Come in!”
He steps back, opening the door further. I take my first step into the house, notebook hugged to my chest where the camera hangs heavy. In the front entryway, I see a neatly-swept-up pile of shattered porcelain next to an empty table, which I assume once held said vase. The entryway opens to the living room, where Cole takes me. Everything is surprisingly clean and orderly, as if the house was recently staged to be sold, totally picturesque down to every detail. Even the throw blanket on the back of the couch is wrinkle-free and perfectly in place.
I don’t know what it is about all the cleanliness here, but I find it calming to my otherwise racing mind. Maybe when I get back home, I should straighten up a few things in my own house.
I just stepped foot in his house and am already thinking about going home. Typical me.
Cole leads me to a pair of armchairs that rest near a set of tall windows overlooking the backyard. “Are these okay? I considered us doing this outside in a pair of nice wicker chairs, but thought it might get warm. Oh, I haven’t been outside, I just realized. Is it—?”
