light step and an uncharacteristically pleasant outlook, I had fully expected it wouldn’t last long outside his presence.
But strangely, it has. The time in between made room for doubts, yes, but it also allowed hope to settle. Allowed excitement to burrow into me. By mid-week, my yearning was stronger than my fear, and all I could think about was being close to him again, no matter what the cost.
God, why does he make me wait? Is he not as anxious to see me again too? Has he changed his mind? What if he’s given up and doesn’t show at all? Each second that passes, the room feels darker and smaller, too dark and small to hold the growing mass of anticipation within me. My heart is pounding. I’m practically in a sweat. I’m about to spin from the winding tension.
It is an addiction.
Then, thirty seconds to start time, as my hope leans toward turmoil, he walks in the door, bringing a beam of sunlight with him and a stream of fresh air.
Our eyes meet instantly. His lips twitch. His gaze is warm. He’s so obviously happy to see me that even I can’t find a way to twist the proof into something other than what it is.
I have to clamp down the kind of grin I want to give him. I present a smile more suitable for the entire class instead and launch into the day’s lesson. “Studio portraits. Where light is your best friend and your worst foe. Let’s take it on, shall we?”
The half hour spent on lecture goes well enough, despite the split in my attention. I have to force myself not to rush. Each word spoken brings me closer to the breakout sessions when the students will be let loose to work, and I’ll walk around to counsel them.
This time, I will not leave Hendrix for the end.
It’s still another thirty minutes after I’m done teaching that I actually get to him. Working in the studio is a foreign experience for many of them and much help is needed setting up backdrops and softbox and umbrella lights before the first shoot can begin. Eventually, though, there’s a student on a stool and another with her camera focused on her. The others are lined up to take a turn as photographer, and I’m free.
I somehow manage not to run straight to him, stopping to go over the weekend’s assignment with Charlie and then Salima before I wander over to Hendrix. The anticipation is delicious, even the smallest buildup of time echoing vastly inside me.
“May I?” I say, reaching for his camera. Our fingers brush as I take it, and it’s not an accident.
I bend my head over the screen, slowly flipping through images that barely register as they pass by. I’m focused on the perception I’m giving to the others who might be watching rather than his work. I’m focused on how near he’s standing. On the rise and fall of his breaths. On the sprout of happiness inside that’s grown from the seed he planted.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.” My words are quiet, and we’re nestled near a corner in the back, but I glance around the room casually just in case.
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear that.” His voice isn’t quite as low, probably not necessary since what he’s said is more innocuous. He could be happy that I like his composition. He could be happy that I think the sun will stay out all day. He could be happy that I liked the sushi bar he recommended.
It’s a little bit of a game, I realize, pretending in front of the others. A thrilling bit of taboo.
I look up at him, eager to connect with his gaze. “You had me wrecked when you didn’t show up until the last minute for class. Kept me on pins and needles waiting for you.”
I’m surprised I’m being so forthright. It’s almost as if I have no choice. The feelings have been so bottled up inside me, they spill out like a shaken-up fizzy pop once the top comes off.
He rewards my honesty with a smirk. “Now you know how I feel.”
My ribs tighten and the smile flickers on my lips as I try to decide if I’m bothered by being called out. Trying to decide if I’m supposed to feel guilty.
“I’m used to that feeling from waiting in the field,” he says, reading my apprehension correctly, and this time his voice is nearly a