Page 4 of A Man To Remember
But hey, maybe it's not me. MaybeI'mokay, and it's just Austin who's been mature all along. Has he? I scan my brain for memories of the past, but save for a few glimpses, a handful of still images of him and Jamie hanging out and laughing and shooting hoops, I come up empty. Not that I'm surprised.
A voice I wasn't expecting makes my body jerk, letting me know I've zoned out. Just like in school. "Alright. That's a wrap," Austin's voice announces.
"Whew." The long-haired model brushes said hair off his face and pats his co-worker on the shoulder as a sign of a job well done. Yep, definitely not a couple. They both look tired, but utterly satisfied—one of the best feelings known to man.
Austin says something I don't quite catch, and both models laugh, whatever charged tension hung in the air just seconds ago now a distant memory.
Now that they're done, I technically don't need to make myself invisible anymore, but the subtle intimacy hanging in the air compels me to do just that as I watch the models gather up their things and put their clothes back on.
I try not to stare. Somehow, witnessing someone—strangers, at that—dress up seems as much of an invasion of privacy as watching them strip down. Who knew?
Reminding myself they're in fact aware of my presence and don't seem to mind, I lift my gaze. It lands right on Austin's back, where he's standing hunched over his laptop, his shoulders squared, the muscles around his neck seemingly tense as he clicks away, indicating that the job for the day may be over for the two men currently finishing buttoning up their garments, but his is far from done.
"I'll try to send you the proofs later tonight," Austin says, more to his computer than the men, judging by his unflinching pose.
I check my wristwatch and scrunch my forehead. Does the guy ever sleep?
They exchange a few more pleasantries, and after a couple of "Byes" and "See you tomorrows", the two unfairly attractive guys start heading my way. It throws me for a loop for a split second before I remember I'm sitting by the only exit.
They both send nods my way as they pass me, and I'd be lying if I said my face doesn't brighten up at that. I know I'm not a part of the art making process, but it's nice to be acknowledged.
Once the door closes behind them, I count back from five to give Austin some breathing room before I insert myself into said art. Waiting until he takes a break seems pointless—clearly, the guy's a workaholic, his stance frozen as he looks down at the screen. With habits like that, he should have a hunchback by now, but he doesn't, his posture as flawless as it was years ago. I give myself a point for remembering that tidbit as I shove Austin into the unfairly attractive box right next to the models and haul my ass up before sauntering over.
My footsteps echo off the walls, making my presence abundantly clear, but Austin doesn't flinch, indicating my ninja skills are far from perfect and he knew I was here all along.
He doesn't look back, however, and once I reach his post and stop right behind him, I look over his shoulder and at the screen.
Looming back at me is the long-haired man, with his head tilted down, looking straight into the camera, one arm wrapped around the other model who's flexing his back muscles, his facenuzzled into the crook of his work-husband's neck. My gaze follows his spine, down to where the small of his back disappears in the shadow. Even though I just witnessed the process, I could have sworn he's naked.
"Mesmerizing," I say to make my presence officially known. Also, because it's true.
Austin doesn't look back, proceeding to the next shot. "Mmm," he hums. "I'm not sure, actually."
My head snaps back and my eyebrows all but meet as I inspect the next shot, and then the next. "Why?" I ask. "They look…" I tilt my head to look at them from a different angle, because apparently my body decided I actually know what I'm talking about. "Well, they're pretty damn good, if you ask me." Not that he did.
Austin tsks and shakes his head. "I don't know. I'm just not feeling it."
Apparently he's able to see things I'm not. That's why he's the artist.
"For what it's worth," I push, as if a part of me is hellbent on providing support he's never asked for, "I like them. You know, as a layman."
Austin straightens up, and I can practically feel the relief in my own shoulders. Then, he turns for the first time, and when his eyes finally meet mine, his eyebrows shoot up slightly, as if the conscious part of his brain only now realizes I'm here.
The creative process is truly a mystery.
Once all pieces of him are seemingly on the same page, he props his elbow on the table construction behind him and he leans back, before giving me a prolonged once-over that lingers uncomfortably across my skin even after his attention is backon my face. "Maybe you should do it sometime. You know, as a layman."
I may be imagining things, but I could swear there's a dryness to his voice that wasn't there before, and I'd ask him what's wrong if I knew what it is he's talking about in the first place. Instead, I just blink. "Do what?"
His gaze makes a round trip down my entire frame again, and damn, why does it feel so weird? I successfully fight the urge to step away. Not that we're super close, and not that it'd matter—it's his attention that weighs a little too heavy, not his physical presence.
But then, I do take a step back, and a sharp one at that, when he speaks again. "Pose."
The word echoes inside my skull three times before I gather up enough of my wits to chuckle. "Yeah, no. Not much of a model."
Not much of a daredevil, either. Not anymore, anyway. These days, I'm all about boring. Happily so.
Instead of a leisurely travel, his eyes merely flicker to my chest this time before ping-ponging to my face again. He shrugs one shoulder. "I guess."
