Page 92 of Pick-Up
Maybe he’s tense about the shoot going well? Or feels awkward about what happened in the hammock? In this idyllic setting, it’s easy to forget how much is riding on this.
Then the still photoshoot is done and Charlie returns, happily accepting a beer and a beach chair.
“Okay, people!” says Stephanie. “Let’s get the video segment wrapped, so we can hang out and let loose.”
Ethan and I step forward. I’m still trying not to look at him.
“I’m thinking we should have you guys walk way out into the distance to the farthest tip of the sandbar,” Stephanie says. “Sasha, you can stop freaking out about being featured because, that way, it’ll only be your back. And, I think, if Peter and I have worked this out right, it will all be backlit in silhouette.”
“Just to the edge?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Stephanie. “Just the tip.”
Unlike my gaffs, her implication is very intentional. She winks, then stalks back to Peter to discuss logistics. Once again, I envy her brashness.
“Shall we?” says Ethan.
“Sure,” I say, without looking up. For reasons I can’t confront, I am vibrating with nerves. I wish I had a minute to step away and get my head on straight.
“Okay!” says Peter. “Action!”
We start to walk, slowly, out on the narrowing sandbar into the ocean. The strip of island gets slimmer and slimmer, until we can’t help but walk side by side.
“I feel like we should talk,” Ethan says quietly.
“Sure!” I say with too much pep. “Happy to talk.”
“Right. But it feels a little like now you’re avoiding me.”
“Me?”
“No. The other woman on this peninsula, walking as far away from me as possible.”
“Oh, good,” I say. “As long as it’s not me.”
“Sasha.”
Ugh. With the name. My resolve liquefies.
“Ethan,” I say, “I am not avoiding you.” My nose grows.
How can I explain how conflicted I feel when I don’t understand it myself?
We are nearing the end of nature’s runway. And, at the very edge,we will have no choice but to stand directly beside each other, pressed together in order to fit. Of course this is Stephanie’s design—to create a cozy picture of romance for the viewers. Only, we are not a couple. And the hammock was confusing. And so is my brain—and vagina. And my heart is beating faster and faster as my legs move slower and slower, so maybe what Peter will actually capture on film is me having a heart attack.
“Can you at least look at me?”
No. Yes. Fine.
I have no choice. I have no excuse. I slowly turn my gaze up to meet Ethan’s, and the first thing I see are flecks in his eyes that I haven’t noticed before. Fireworks against an amber sky.
The second thing I see is a twinge of hurt that takes me down in a whole other way.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday or just now in the hammock,” he says.
Oh God. This is the last thing I want him to think. That he is some junior Martin, making unwanted advances. He barely advanced! And nothing was unwanted. If anything, I spurred the hammock incident. I feel awful.
“Ethan, you didn’t make me uncomfortable. Not even a little bit.”
