LYRA

07.07.15

“Are you going to buy any clothes that aren’t black, gray, or brown?” Tavian asks as I drop the armful of shirts, shorts, and pants onto the payment counter at Zara—one of the few stores I recognize from back home, in the shopping mall we found not too far from the hotel.

As soon as I gobbled down my breakfast earlier then shot off an email to my boss bringing him up to speed, I made a mad dash to the gift shop in the lobby, escaping the heady effects his half-naked body was having on my senses. I grabbed the first touristy T-shirt I could find for him—an obnoxious lime green number with the word Espana scrawled in neon orange across the front, and the country’s flag on the back. What I failed to realize, when I was tittering under my breath about how ridiculous he’d look in it, was that I’d have to be seen with him in the damn thing all day long. And it is most definitely an attention-getter, the colors alone acting like a glowing beacon in a foggy night.

And sweet Mother of Mary, if he doesn’t somehow make the ugly-ass shirt look good on top of that. The brightly colored fabric stretched tight over his pecs and biceps emphasizes the sculpted goods underneath, like a highlighter marking up the best parts of a great book.

Snickering, I glance down at the multitude of plastic bags in his hand, stuffed with the small wardrobe he’s already managed to accumulate in the hour we’ve been here. “No,” I retort, “nor am I going to take fashion advice from a guy who just bought a poop emoji T-shirt that says, ‘Shit happens,’ and five pairs of the exact same shorts.”

The saleslady, who apparently understands English better than she speaks it, muffles a giggle while ringing up my items, and I have to fight my own smile at the thought of the silly graphic T-shirts Tavian has collected from store to store. He explained to me on the drive over that they’re pretty much all he wears, unless he’s forced to wear a jacket and tie for some reason, like to a wedding or funeral. Or work—which I was also shocked to learn was teaching undergrad algebra classes at the University of Pennsylvania while he’s working on his PhD in statistics. He could’ve given me a hundred guesses and I wouldn’t have even gotten in the right field. I know it’s a little judgy of me to assume he was probably a fitness trainer or firefighter or had some other beefy, masculine job based on his physical appearance, but I never had a teacher that looked anything close to him.

At the last shop we stopped in, he asked me to pick a T-shirt for him—a test, I think, to see if I’d choose another hideous eyesore or if I’d learned my lesson. Immediately, I gravitated toward a navy one with a picture of a planet centered on the front and the words “PLUTO: Never Forget” below it. His eyes lit up with genuine appreciation when I pointed up at the hanger, and I couldn’t help but beam at his approval. My dad would’ve loved the shirt, too.

Deep breaths, Lyra. You’re stronger than the pain. Live like they would’ve wanted you to. Own your happiness.

In watching Tavian interact with people at the hotel and now the mall, I’ve figured out he likes to make everyone smile. Always friendly and armed with his own contagious grin, it seems no one is immune to his charm—from the janitor sweeping the floor, to the elderly man who held the door open for us, to the little baby in the stroller that wouldn’t stop crying… until she saw Tavian making a goofy face.

I live in a place where millions upon millions of people pass each other daily, and rarely do they even bother to look at each other, much less engage with them. It’s the number one reason why I chose to move to New York City after college, a place I could get completely lost in the shuffle. But now, being around Tavian today, I’m finding I want to talk to him. I just don’t know what to say; a conversationalist, I am not.

“Well, shit does happen.” He chuckles and shrugs. Then he leans down to my ear and pretends to whisper but keeps his voice loud enough for the woman on the other side of the sales counter to hear. “And I saw you checking out my ass in those shorts when I tried them on. I bet you’re hoping I wear a pair every day for the rest of this trip. Aren’t you, buttercup?”

My cheeks flame with mortification as I drop my chin and shake my head. I did not look at his ass, as much as I may have wanted to, and he’s just baiting me to argue, wanting to rile me up. And even though a small part of me—a new part I’m not quite sure what to do with—wants to indulge him and play along, the practiced part of me that hates attention and dodges human interaction is much stronger. So I clam up and shut him down, saying nothing until the clerk finally feels the need to break the awkward silence.

“Trescientos cuarenta y ocho Euros, por favor,” she squeaks out, and Tavian, who I can sense staring inquisitively at the side of my hanging head, absentmindedly hands her a credit card from his wallet.

Thankfully, neither of them tries to engage with me again as they complete the transaction, and she then offers a quick “gracias” before Tavian grabs the bag of clothes and hands it to me. I follow him out of the store, dread building with each step, my gut suddenly knotted tightly. I don’t want to answer his questions. But I don’t want him to stop trying to get me to open up either. Gah, I’m a lost cause.

“I’ll stop with the nicknames if it pisses you off that much,” he grumbles once we’re in the common area of the mall, making our way to the stores we hadn’t yet been inside. “I’m just teasing you, ya know? Trying to help you loosen up. I realize yesterday was fucking awful, but you gotta try not to dwell on it. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for both of us to talk to a professional counselor when we get back home, but for now, while we’re here, focus on enjoying your new adventure. Think about all the different places you’re gonna get to visit and take pictures of. All of the different cultures you’re gonna experience, all of the new people you’re gonna mee—”

“Stop!” I cut him off before he can finish the thought, pulling up mid-stride and stomping my foot assertively. “I don’t want to meet new people.”

Tavian stops and jerks his body around to confront me, his forehead creased with confusion, eyes wide with perplexity. “What do you mean you don’t want to meet new people? That makes no sense, especially from someone who claims their passion is lifestyle photography. That does involve people, right?” he quips.

“Just because I like to take pictures with people in them doesn’t mean I want to meet them,” I argue. “I find the beauty in the ability to capture a single moment in time, which can never be exactly replicated, and how the memories are frozen forever in one simple photograph. If I got to know my subjects, even a little bit…” My voice trails off as the image of Chloe’s precious little face pops up in my mind. I shudder and squeeze my eyes shut, willing the heartbreaking vision to disappear.

Tavian waits patiently for me to process the pain, probably correctly assuming I’m reliving a scene from yesterday. But he doesn’t realize my darkness lies much deeper than the last twenty-four hours.

“Look, I’m not like you,” I explain while slowly prying my lids open and gazing up at his still-puzzled expression. For some reason, the more often I make eye contact with him, the easier it is to look past his numbers. They’re still there if I focus on them, but I’m too busy searching for other things—emotions and unspoken thoughts. “It’s pretty evident you’re a people person. But I’m not. I prefer to keep to myself… just me with my camera, blending in with my surroundings, hopefully going unnoticed. It’s just better that way.”

He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but quickly snaps it shut and gives his head a firm shake. We stand staring at each other for a long minute, a showdown of wills. For a moment, I think he’s about to tell me to forget the whole thing, that I need to go home. But instead, he finally breaks the trance, taking my free hand in his and tugging me toward the next shop, as he says,

“Your way sucks, and I’m gonna prove it to you.”