Page 12 of A Man To Remember
I unfold his offering, and have to consciously use my forehead muscles to keep my eyebrows at least somewhat in place.
A black tie and boxer briefs. That's it. The entire costume department, right there in my hands.
This is way more naked than I bargained for, though what exactly was I expecting? A three-piece suit and a chat about the weather?
The privacy screen in the corner is practically begging me to use it. To maintain some semblance of dignity while I strip down to basically nothing.
I look at it. Look at Austin. Look at the screen again.
Then I meet Austin's eyes and start pulling my shirt off.
Because apparently, I've lost my goddamn mind.
Austin's professional mask stays perfectly in place, but I catch his reflection in one of the mirrors. He's adjusting camera settings with the intense focus of a brain surgeon, which is about as subtle as a neon sign screaming "I'm trying not to look!"
Something about it makes me want to burst out laughing. It all feels ridiculous somehow.
I fold my shirt with deliberate slowness, the air conditioning kissing my bare chest like a cold judgment. My hands find my jeans zipper.
Last chance to preserve what's left of my dignity.
I unzip instead.
The sound ricochets around the quiet room like a gunshot. I let the denim pool at my ankles, step out, andsuddenly I'm standing here in my dark blue boxers feeling more exposed than if I were buck naked in Times Square.
Because Austin is looking now.
And okay,lookingmay be an overstatement. It's more of a passing glance rather than staring, but the way my brain interprets and over-blows it, he might as well be holding binoculars.
Does he…feel anything? Is the image making him breathe a certain way, or am I just a natural part of the surroundings, no different than a studio lamp? And why do I suddenly want to know?
It's because of what I remember, that's why. Because of what I now know, unlike the last time I took off my clothes in his vicinity.
Part of me wants answers. Another part wants to hide behind the privacy screen until next Tuesday.
The hiding part wins and I practically dive for the screen, yanking it between us like armor.
Behind it, I try to piece together what's left of my sanity. And I fail.
Because deep down I know what I'm about to do. A decision has been made, and it feels like my free will wasn't invited to the process of making it. Instead I'm being presented with the final result, like I'm a mere observer of the present moment, not an active participant.
"You okay in there?" Austin's voice carries just enough professional concern to be convincing.
"Yeah," I lie, because I'm about as far from okay as a person can get without requiring psychiatric intervention.
I change into the boxer briefs, trying not to think about how they fit like they were made for me. How Austin somehow knows my exact measurements. Did he guess? Has he actually spent time thinking about it? Does it matter?
The tie goes around my neck, loose and casual. Then, it's showtime.
I step out from behind the screen and catch the exact moment Austin's professional mask slips. His eyes dart down my body, then up again, before he looks away. It's brief, but it's there, like distant thunder—not yet a threat, but enough to make you wonder if the storm's coming your way.
Then, the mask snaps back into place, reminding me that he's a professional.
"Stand by the backdrop."
I do as instructed, uncomfortably aware of how the thin fabric clings to absolutely everything. There's no hiding anything in these boxer briefs. They're basically a second skin with delusions of grandeur.
"Turn your head to the right."
