Page 61 of A Man To Remember
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest where my head rests. "You do?"
I shake my head against his skin. "No. But I think my soul does."
CHAPTER 20
JESSE
ON MONDAY, WE grab lunch at that Vietnamese place on Third Street, the one with the mismatched chairs and the owner who remembers Austin from ten years ago. Tuesday, we walk through the museum district, Austin pointing out lighting techniques in paintings like I was his eager student. Wednesday, we fuck in my apartment until my downstairs neighbor bangs on the ceiling with what sounds like a broomstick.
After that, I stop counting the days because the calendar reminds me of our expiration date, and every time I see those numbers I feel like someone's squeezing my lungs with both hands.
Except time has this cruel way of marching forward regardless of whether you're paying attention. Three weeks become two, become one, becometomorrow he's leavingbefore I'm ready to face that reality.
But I can't ignore it forever, especially not when I'm standing here, watching Austin pack up his equipment for what Iknow is the last time. His movements are efficient, but sluggish. The same routine I've watched him perform dozens of times over the past month. Except this time, there's a finality to it that makes my chest feel hollow.
I've somehow become Austin's unofficial assistant during my breaks and days off, helping him set up lights and direct models and offering suggestions that he actually listens to. It started accidentally—me hanging around because I couldn't stay away—but evolved into something that feels natural. Like we're a team.
Like this could be a life.
"Can you grab that reflector?" Austin asks, nodding toward the silver disc leaning against the wall.
I fold it down with movements I've practiced enough times to do in my sleep and hand it to him. Our fingers brush as he takes it, and even now, after all this time, that small contact sends electricity through my chest.
"You're getting good at this," he says, securing the reflector in its case. "Maybe I should put you on payroll."
"Maybe you should."
The joke falls flat because we both know there won't be a payroll to be on. Not here, anyway.
I watch him work, memorizing the way he coils cables and secures lens caps, trying to burn these mundane details into my memory. The precise way he wraps each cord. How he checks every piece of equipment twice before putting it away. The little furrow between his eyebrows when he's concentrating.
Because soon, this will be all I have.
The models he finished shooting twenty minutes ago were a couple—real-life boyfriend and girlfriend, not justprofessionals playing parts. They couldn't keep their hands off each other between takes, stealing kisses when they thought no one was looking, whispering inside jokes that made them both crack up at inappropriate moments.
The woman was stunning. Objectively, undeniably beautiful. Long dark hair that caught the light like silk, curves in all the right places, the kind of smile that could sell anything to anyone. She had this laugh that filled the whole room, infectious and genuine, and when she looked at you, it felt like being seen.
A month ago, I would have been attracted to her. I would have found reasons to look her way, maybe even entertained fantasies about what it would be like to take her home, to run my hands through that hair, to make her laugh in private moments.
Now? Nothing. Not even a flicker of interest.
Which raises the question that's been nagging at me for weeks: have my tastes changed completely? Or am I just so far gone for the man behind the camera that no one else registers anymore?
I'm pretty sure I know the answer, and it terrifies me.
Because what happens when he's gone? What happens when I'm back to my regular life, serving drinks to people who want things I no longer understand, living in a world that suddenly feels too small and too gray?
What happens when the person who taught me I could be someone different disappears?
"That's it," Austin announces, snapping the last case shut. "All done."
The finality of those words sucks the life out of me.
All done.
Not just the shoot. Not just this session. Everything.
Us.
