Page 10 of A Man To Remember
I NEARLY DROP the reflector I'm adjusting for the third time because my hands apparently forgot how to do their job. Which is just perfect, considering I have exactly seventeen minutes before my model shows up and nothing is ready. The silver surface catches the overhead lights, momentarily blinding me, as if I needed another reminder of how off my game I am today.
Focus, Austin.
But focusing is proving difficult when my mind keeps wandering back to the ghost of yesterday. To the way Jesse's muscles tensed under my touch. To how responsive he was to every direction, even when he was pretending not to understand them. Especially then. Every time I close my eyes, I see him standing there, shirtless, that dragon tattoo moving with each breath, his skin warm under my fingertips.
The memory is so vivid I can almost feel the phantom sensation against my palms.
I shake my hands out, as if that might help dispel the lingering ghost of that touch.
It doesn't. Of course it doesn't.
I busy myself with adjusting the umbrella lights, making minute changes that probably won't make any difference to the final shots. But at least it gives me something to do with my hands.
Movement at the door catches my eye. Speaking of ghosts…
I pretend not to notice Jesse hovering in the doorway, but my body lights up with awareness. It's like someone cranked up the gravity in the room, making every movement feel weighted, significant.
I adjust another light, fighting the urge to look over my shoulder. The last thing I need right now is another trip down memory lane, but my brain has other ideas.
Suddenly I'm back in high school, watching Jesse play basketball with Jamie during lunch break. Watching the way his shirt would ride up when he'd reach for a shot. The way his laugh would echo across the court. The way he'd run his hand through his hair when he was frustrated, a gesture that apparently hasn't changed in all these years.
I remember the way my stomach used to flip every time he'd smile, even when the smile wasn't directed at me.
Fuck.
I was supposed to be past this. Past him.
I spent years carefully constructing walls around those memories, around that stupid teenage crush on a straight boy that ended in... No. Not going there. Not now. Not ever again.
My model arrives—thank God—and I throw myself into work mode. He's good-looking in that classical way that photographs well, all sharp angles and defined muscles. "Can you stand here?" I position him in front of the backdrop, my directions coming out more commanding than usual. "Turn your head to the left. No, more. Perfect."
I'm hyperaware of Jesse's presence as I work, and I can practically feel his eyes following my every move. My hands are steadier now as I adjust my model's pose, but each touch feels performative, like I'm on stage. The way I angle the model's chin, how I position his arms—it all feels deliberate in a way it usually doesn't.
Which is ridiculous because I'm not performing for anyone. Especially not forhim.
Yet when I direct my model into a more intimate pose, my voice comes out lower, more authoritative. "Hand on your chest. Lower. Yeah, like that." The words taste like ash in my mouth because I know I'm showing off. Proving something. Though what, and to whom, I'm not ready to admit.
I don't need to look at the door to know Jesse's still watching. I can feel his gaze like a physical touch, especially when I step forward to adjust my model's stance. Just like yesterday, when Jesse's eyes had followed my every movement, had lingered on my hands as they moved across his skin, had darkened when I'd...
Stop it.
I force myself to focus on the technical aspects of the shoot.
Lighting ratios. Exposure settings. The way the shadows fall across my model's collarbones. Anything but the weight of Jesse's stare.
I take another shot, then check it on the screen. It's good. Professional.
Unlike my thoughts, which keep circling back to yesterday like water spiraling down a drain.
I chance a glance toward the door. Jesse's leaning against the frame now, arms crossed over his chest, watching intently. The pose is so similar to how he used to stand in the hallway between classes, that for a moment the past and present blur together. The lighting in the club isn't that different from the hallway lights of our high school, casting similar shadows across his face.
I used to live for those moments. Those brief glimpses of Jesse between classes.
Before everything went to shit. Before he... Before that party. Before the whispers started. Before everyone knew.
The familiar surge of resentment helps clear my head. This is ridiculous. I'm not that lovesick teenager anymore, and Jesse isn't...
Well, Jesse isn't anything to me now.
