Lindsey

 

I twist my bracelets, releasing a long-suppressed sigh. It’s the twenty-first century; I’m lucky to have been offered a position in my field of interest that pays anything at all. On that note, I type out my acceptance and send it. It’s not traveling the United States in pursuit of all things uncharted and musical, but it’s something. It’s something.

The one time I went to yoga, I learned to think positive thoughts, was urged to give myself a pat on the back occasionally. Or maybe that was just something I saw on a motivational poster. Either way, I reach over my shoulder and pat my own back, just as Anika pushes through the door to our room.

She looks at me, then turns her attention to her little desk in the corner, then looks at me again. “Did you just give yourself a pat on the back?”

“Somebody has to. Might as well be me.”

“Still bummed about Jenson?”

“What?” I feign shock and disbelief, pushing my laptop away from me. “I’m not bummed about Jenson. If anything, I’m bummed he had to go and ruin our arrangement.”

Anika had been home the night I came in, nearly frozen from sitting beneath the stars, makeup pooled beneath my eyes, and hadn’t relented until I admitted everything that happened between Jenson and me. She’s been trying to pry open the steel door I’ve kept on my emotions ever since.

“Sure, because normal people mourn the loss of regular sex. Boo-hoo.”

“Don’t you?” I defer, picking at the dry petals of my newest dead bouquet—garden roses.

“Yes, but,” she huffs, dropping down onto the floor to take off her shoes, “you’re not normal.” When I give her a look, she says, “Sorry, but you’re not. You care about everything and act like it’s all nothing. That will never work out in your favor.”

I want to tell her she’s full of shit, but that would be a lie. Anika is one of only three people in Nashville who care that I even exist. The least I can do is be honest with her. “I never led him on, you know. I made my priorities clear from the beginning.”

Her shoulders droop. My forced indifference has that effect. “Step into my office.”

“Ani—”

“Don’t complain, just do it,” she says, her head already beneath the bed skirt.

I crawl under on my belly, but only halfway. My tiny rebellion against her weird therapy sessions. “What do you want?”

“How warm are your priorities going to keep you in, like, ten years? How many memories will they share with you?”

“You’re being awfully sentimental today, Ani. It’s freaking me out.”

She deadpans. “I saw the photos you posted of him on your feed. I witnessed you guys in action. That wasn’t nothing.”

“So we had chemistry. Cool. We’re also two completely different people at two completely different points in our lives. We’re headed down separate paths, toward separate goals. Sometimes those paths don’t always line up.”

Anika entwines her fingers together, brandishing them in my face. “But they can converge. And they can be magic. You can admit you were afraid. That maybe you discovered what you had with the boys from your past was nothing compared to the real thing, and the real thing is hard. It scared you.”

I burn my stomach sliding out. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Then you’ll never experience the full capacity of love. Not ’til you admit it.” The disembodied quality of her voice, muffled beneath the bed, makes it easier to ignore. Kind of like the voice in my head. The one in my heart.

“If that’s what love is, I don’t want it.” I grab my phone off my pillow, intent on taking a walk to escape my interrogating roommate and clear my head, when I notice the alerts: one missed call, one voicemail. Strange. Nobody leaves me voicemails unless they’re a bill collector. Or Craig. Anika disappears across the hall and into the bathroom just as I play the message.

“Hey, this message is for Lindsey. My name is Sal Reyes, I’m a tour videographer. I came across some of your work and have an opportunity I wanna talk to you about. It . . . well, I don’t want to get your hopes up, but it could be fucking phenomenal for your career. Call me back at this number if you’re interested.” 

Like earlier, I have to replay the message over and over to make the words stick, then I comb my memory for a Sal Reyes. I’m fairly positive I don’t know of him. So, I do what any modern-day woman would do. I put on my stalking pants and get to work.

Sal Reyes has a few hundred thousand followers on Instagram and a feed full of clips of his work. I click through them and instantly become immersed. His videos are electric, energizing. They capture sound and color and movement all at once, in a way still photography can’t. The clips are interspersed by candid photos, and I’m surprised to see several familiar faces. Some of the bands I’ve crossed paths with on my jobs and musicians I’ve only heard of. This guy is well-connected. He knows his stuff.

Not that social media is totally indicative of character, but I feel more at ease calling him back. He picks up after a few rings.

“Hi. This is Lindsey. You, uh, called me earlier.” Not the smoothest of introductions, but I didn’t wake up expecting to have a chat with a noteworthy industry influencer.

“Yeah, Lindsey, hi. Sorry for calling out of the blue like that, but I promise it’ll be worth your time.” He speaks at a rapid pace, but his voice is warm.

“Sure, no worries. How did you find me?”

There’s a beat of silence before he answers. “The online community, the industry. Word travels, you know. There’s a hell of a lot of talk I try to avoid, but in this case, the grapevine was helpful. You’ve made a good impression on the people you’ve worked with.”

I want to ask who he means, but he continues. “Listen, would you want to meet for coffee or something? That way we can meet face to face. See if we vibe. You can ask me as many questions as you want about the job.”

Friendly or not, I’m defensive, and this guy is still a stranger. “What is the job, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh, right. Sorry. I’ve got a thousand things going on right now.” He chuckles. “You heard of Dare and Fall?”

I nod to myself. This is Nashville and they’re a punk band. It’d be difficult not to notice a group that’s breaking the mold of what’s expected in Music City. “Yeah, of course.”

“Right, of course. I just got hired on as their tour videographer. They’re starting their European leg in January, and their team planned this documentary of sorts. Anyway, I’m looking for a photographer to join the team. Give the project some dimension. The pay is okay, but the experience will be better.”

My body reacts before I can, chills racing down my spine. A tour photographer. Europe. I don’t want to believe it and I do. I do with all my heart.

“What time are you free?” I ask when I find my voice.

 

Sal smiles broadly when I enter the café, showing a mouthful of white teeth that are striking against his brown skin. He waves as if I might miss him, but he’s instantly recognizable. I adjust the crossbody strap on my shoulder and stride through the tables at Tin Cup Coffee—a warm, exposed-brick kind of place, with metal stools for seating and strings of lights draped overhead.

He stands when I reach the table and shakes my hand firmly and exuberantly. Two seconds in and I can tell he’s one of those people who instantly assumes you’re friends and won’t let you believe anything different. The image before me matches the rapid-fire conversation we had on the phone.

“Sal Reyes,” he says needlessly.

“Lindsey Farrar. Nice to meet you.” I smile, and for the first time in weeks, it’s easy. I like this guy. Not like that, but because he’s so open. He has an honest face and exudes so much sunshine, you know he couldn’t possibly have any dark corners to get lost in. There’s no mystery here.

“Likewise. You want to grab a coffee first? My treat.”

Setting my bag in one of the chairs, I fetch my wallet. As of yesterday, I have a salary. My nonexistent savings will soon be replenished if I budget carefully. “Thanks, but don’t worry about it. Be right back.” 

It takes me maybe a full second of standing at the counter to realize I won’t be ordering my usual. Black coffee carries with it memories of tasting it on Jenson’s lips. Sitting on his counter top and trying to finish off my mug while he ran his thumbs up the insides of my thighs. Working across from him at the café—him writing, me editing or sneaking photos of him while he was entangled in his lyrics.

“I’ll take a latte, please,” I say once I snap out of my haze.

When I return to the table, Sal’s lazing back in his chair, typing out something on his phone. He finishes and tosses it onto the tabletop when I sit down. “Thanks for meeting with me. With Christmas around the corner, I know life is crazy. And calling you out of the blue like that was a risk, what with the fucked-up world we live in.”

“I stalked you before I came. I figured if I was being set up or abducted, at least it was by someone with a decent following. Worth a shot.” I shrug. The first sip of my latte makes me wince. It’s sorely lacking the bite I prefer in my beverages.

Sal chuckles. “Right. Well, in that case, I’m flattered—at least you thought I was worth it. For the record, I’m not an abductor. Not creepy enough for that.” He holds up his hands innocently. “Anyway, I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here.”

More like wondering what he’s doing here, talking to me, when he could’ve reached out to dozens of other, more experienced photographers. Who knows, maybe he has. Maybe I’m a last resort. “A little. I don’t have much experience.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he leans forward, planting his elbows on the table. “Experience can only get you so far. You can’t learn the kind of talent I’ve seen in your work. You can take classes to be good, but if you want to be great, you need the instincts, you know? You have to anticipate moments before they happen, just a figment of time when you see something no one else does.” He raps his knuckles on the oaken tabletop. “I see that in your work.”

His intensity, the glow of passion in his eyes, makes my mouth dry. I take another sip of coffee.

“Too much?” he asks, just as I open my mouth to respond.

I shake my head. “No, not at all. I’m just not sure I’ve ever expressed my mission, my goal, so eloquently. I’ve been working toward that for a long time—capturing that moment. It’s why my page is called Smoke and Mirrors. Life is all about illusions, isn’t it? You rarely see beyond the mask people put up. But I’ve found that art is a channel, a conduit for the soul. The best art makes us more aware of all the facets of humanity—honesty, greed, humility, arrogance.” I catch my reflection where I’m staring out the window, rambling. “I can get carried away. When I look back at him, there’s just a hint of a smug smile on his lips. Like I’ve proven him right.

He shakes his head wryly. “I’m glad to know my instincts were right about you. This job, it’s pretty unique. I mean, it’s been done before, but I think we can put a fresh spin on things. That’s if you choose to accept.”

“Why don’t you tell me more about what we’d be doing?”

“Of course. If you know Dare and Fall, you know the reputation that comes with them: party boys with too much fame and money, and not enough sense. Street-racing, womanizing, flashing their new money far more than necessary.”

I nod along with him. The frontman of D and F, Kingston, has been the face of the gossip articles as of late. His antics make Jenson’s look like child’s play.

“Their PR team is working on cleansing their image. I’d say purifying but, well, I doubt that’s possible. They’re dropping their album ‘Outlaw Revival’ in January, at the start of their tour. I’ve been hired on to document their travels. More of a life videographer than a tour videographer. The goal is to upload regularly, sometimes instantly, to take their fans on a journey through their evolution, capture everything, create personal connections between them and the viewers. They don’t want to be personified as unattainable popstars—Kingston’s words—but as regular guys.”

Something swells in my chest—a rolling sense of pride that turns into an ache. Jenson was a regular guy. He wore fame like a bad suit, but he didn’t have to pretend. Maybe, more than anything, that’s what I loved about him. His humility. “Have you met with them? Do you think you can achieve that?” I ask, instantly skeptical. I’m no stranger to the egos and superiority complexes of musicians, even in my lowly status.

Sal nods, his lips tight. “I have. Whether we’ll succeed isn’t guaranteed, but this could be the project of my career and I’m not going to let it pass without giving it the ol’ college try. I accepted knowing it would be a lot to handle, and then the idea came along to add someone else into the mix. It wouldn’t hurt to have another pair of eyes, a fresh perspective, and I don’t mind dividing the work. I’m not so cocky as to think I can capture both videos and stills and put all my focus into both.” He leans back again, pointing at me with a pinky. “And, I think you might be good for the band.”

I scratch at the wood grain of the table, my face growing hot under his scrutiny. Good for the band? Good enough to photograph an international tour and have these guys’ reputations in the palm of my hand? “You mentioned a fresh perspective. Is it because I’m a female that you came to me? That maybe if a woman is involved in the project, it will help shine a more positive light on the band?”

Sal rubs his face with his knuckles. “Remember what I said about instincts? It has everything to do with those and nothing to do with your gender.”

What was anxiety is evolving quickly into anticipation, prickling down my spine. It’s almost too good to be true that this opportunity is falling into my lap, and with that anticipation comes doubt. A fear that this will be pulled out from beneath my feet and send me tumbling. “And you think I’m going to be good enough?”

“Yes.” His answer is crisp, no-nonsense, confident. I wish I was that self-assured.

“Okay.” I sigh, finally allowing myself to believe. My feigned confidence brought me to Nashville, but my fear will keep me here forever. I’ve got to loosen the reins on what little control I have, or else what is it all for? Why would I have let Jenson down and, in turn, allow my heart to break? “When do we start?”