Page 20 of A Man To Remember
By the time I reach the street, I'm counting down the minutes until he'll be in my space again, looking at images of himself through my lens.
Maybe finally understanding how I see him.
Maybe understanding that some things can't be solved with space and good intentions and the sheer force of will.
CHAPTER 11
JESSE
STANDING OUTSIDE AUSTIN'S apartment building, I'm pretty sure I've lost my mind.
My palms are sweating like I'm about to take the SATs again, except this time the stakes feel higher than my education. This time I'm not sure what I'm even testing for. My phone tells me I'm three minutes early, which means I've been standing here long enough for the security camera to probably flag me as suspicious.
Great. Nothing says "stable adult making rational decisions" like loitering outside someone's building while having an existential crisis.
The thing is, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing here. Yesterday happened—that much I know. But knowing something happened and understanding what it means are two completely different concepts, and right now they're wrestling for dominance in my skull while I stand here like an idiot.
Maybe I should leave. Turn around, get back in my car, pretend I got the address wrong or had a family emergency or spontaneously developed amnesia.
Instead, I press the buzzer.
"Yeah?" Austin's voice crackles through the intercom, and even distorted by the shitty speaker quality, it does something strange to my nervous system.
"It's Jesse."
The door clicks open without another word, which somehow feels both welcoming and ominous. Like walking into a trap I'm setting for myself.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor gives me exactly thirty seconds to come up with a plan, a script, some kind of roadmap for how this evening should go. Thirty seconds to figure out what the hell I want from this interaction.
I come up empty.
Austin opens the door before I can knock, like he's been waiting right there.
"Hey," he says, stepping aside to let me in.
"Hey."
Brilliant conversation so far. Really setting the intellectual bar high.
His place is nicer than I expected—all clean lines and carefully chosen furniture. Photography equipment is scattered around in organized chaos—tripods folded in corners, camera bags lined up like soldiers, a laptop open on the coffee table surrounded by memory cards and lens caps. It looks like the workspace of someone who takes their craft seriously.
Someone who's built a life around creating beautiful things.
I feel like I'm contaminating the space just by being here.
"Nice place," I manage, shoving my hands into my pockets because they need somewhere to go that isn't reaching for him. "Airbnb?"
"Week-to-week rental. Seemed easier than a hotel for this long." Austin closes the door behind me, and the soft click feels unnaturally loud. "Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee, beer?"
The offer hangs in the air between us, innocent enough except for the way his eyes flicker when he mentions beer. Like he's testing something, waiting to see how I respond. Most people wouldn't think twice about it, but I've spent seven years learning to read the subtext in casual drinking references.
"Water's good," I say, and pretend not to notice the way his shoulders relax slightly.
He disappears into what I assume is the kitchen, leaving me alone to stand awkwardly in his living room like a kid whose parents just left him unsupervised in a supermarket. I resist the urge to touch things, to explore, to leave fingerprints on his carefully curated life, even if it's just temporary.
When he returns with two glasses, the ice cubes clink against the sides like tiny wind chimes.
"So," I say, accepting the water and immediately taking a sip I don't need. "The photos?"
