Page 33 of Mr. Picture Perfect
Why am I not moving right now?
Why isn’t he?
It’s the Strongs’ living room all over again. Like we’re a pair of magnets, opposite ends constantly pulled together, determined to collide despite all efforts.
“Good,” he says after a moment, and his smile grows.
What the hell is on Cole Harding’s mind?
The dog—Porridge by name, as I just learned—lets out another shrill yelp, as if to remind us that she’s the one who demanded our attention and helped put a merciful end to our intimate charley horse massage session.
“Hey, here’s a good idea,” says Cole with a snap of his fingers. “How about we take her on a walk around the neighborhood?”
I blink. “You need to … to walk your dog?”
“Why not? We could do the interview as we go.”
“I …” My hands fumble with the notebook, nearly dropping it. It’s practically sandwiched between our bodies, considering that we’re standing so close. The camera, too. “I need to write things down. To take notes. How can I—” His face is so close to mine. Why aren’t either of us stepping away? Is this normal for him? Is this how he has conversations with his friends? Dotheymind? “How can I do that while walking?”
Cole gives an innocent shrug. “You have your phone on you, don’t you? Isn’t it normal to record interviews? That way, you can listen back to it later on and quote me down to the syllable.”
“Of course I was going to record us. I just … I meant …” Quite suddenly, I realize I have no point to make. Why not just record it without taking notes? Obviously this is what the others do when they interview people. It’s more natural. It allows for the dialogue to flow uninterrupted.
Provided you’re a normal person who understands how to let dialogue flow.
Or make any at all.
But Cole is confident about this walking idea. And something about his confidence makes me trust him.
And so: “O-Okay, let’s walk your dog then.”
“Let’s walk my dog,” agrees Cole, grinning.
Minutes later, the pair of us are strolling down the street. Cole holds the leash of a much calmer Porridge, who seems less excited about leading the way than she does just to be out of the house for a while. The distant murmur of the crowds attending the second day of the crafts festival can be heard several streets over, though neither of us pay it much mind. I guess we’ve seen enough of it. The mild air drifts past us, neither hot nor cold. The sun is out, but obscured by enough clouds to not feel like fire upon our necks. It is basically a perfect day.
And I’m still burdened with unrest. Suddenly I miss standing close to him in the living room—his living roomorthe Strongs’. At least when we were standing within ridiculously close proximity of one another, my anxiety had an easy-to-explain reason.
Out here, my nerves are everywhere, and I have no idea what to blame for them. Springtime allergies? Sunlight? Conversation?
How do I start this damned interview? Can I even remember the first question I came up with? I must have reworded it twelve times, yet none of the words come to mind, not even the first one. I can’t even remember how I fell asleep.DidI fall asleep? For some reason, all I can think about is that moment my mother came in and the things she unintentionally revealed to me.
How Cole and I apparently have a history with each other.
Walking alongside him as we are, I have an even harder time believing that the strange pair of us were even close to resembling playmates. How is that even possible? Cole whistles while he walks along the path. His every step radiates with confidence. His smile is a gift he gives to the sky, to the trees, to every passing car on the street. Everyone is his best friend. Who has time for all of that boundless energy? I don’t. Maybe my mom had it wrong.
“So, how about—” starts Cole.
“Did we used to be friends?” I blurt out instead.
Cole turns to me. “Friends?”
I wince. I can only take so much bottled-up anxiety before it starts spilling out of my mouth. “Sorry. That isn’t … it’s not one of the questions I had. I just … My mom said something last night, and … it doesn’t ring a bell.”
“You don’t remember?”
I stop and look at him, surprised. “Youdoremember?”
“Of course.” His face lights up. “We would hang out in either one of our backyards while our moms day-drank and talked shit about people around town. Or at least I assume that’s what they’d do. Who knows what they really talked about.” Cole chuckles. He turns to me. “You really don’t remember at all?”
