Chapter 18
Tuesday 11:03 p.m.
A tall hooded figure, only a foot away from me.
I yelp.
“Wow, sorry! Sorry!” Sam slides his hood off, pulling out his earbuds. He’s wearing black sweatpants and a black hoodie. “I didn’t mean to frighten you! Are you okay?”
“Oh . . .” I drop my shoulders, and I have a real urge to collapse my whole body onto the floor as well. I was on edge, and Sam just pricked a needle into an overfilled balloon.
“I’m fine,” I say. “I’m fine. It’s not you. I just . . .” I look down at the empty street and slowly shake my head. “I just had a feeling someone was following me.”
Sam raises an eyebrow as he loops the earbud wire around his neck. “Maybe it was me. Stalking you!” And he winks at me.
Sam?
Stalking?
Me??
I laugh. And that works wonderfully: relaxing my shoulders, loosening my tight muscles, allowing me to pull fresh air into my lungs.
He smiles back and then takes his keys out of his pocket. They jingle against each other, as he smoothly sorts through them with one hand and then picks the right one. “You know, you should take the main street when you walk back home at night,” he says and inserts the key into the keyhole. “Not some dodgy little alley.”
I frown and look back down the street one more time.
How does he know which street I took?
I look back down the alley I came from. Strange . . .
Oh, I know. He must have taken the main street and he didn’t see me . . . that’s how.
The door opens with a slight crack as the wood scrapes and then releases from the small bulge in the laminate floor. Sam holds it open for me. “After you.”
I smile slightly and then walk into the dark hallway. The orange light flickers into existence, and the door closes. I walk to the elevator, acutely aware that Sam is right behind me. And unlike those two men, having him a few feet away does something completely different to me. I’m careful how I walk; I try to look as graceful as possible. I’m straightening my shoulders, lifting my head—and then I realize, all of a sudden, that what I’m doing is trying to impress him.
And I’m probably doing a lousy job too.
I swallow and stop next to the elevator. My gaze is on the floor, and I’m afraid that if he looks into my eyes, he’ll be able to read my thoughts.
He stops next to me.
Then, I gather the courage and look up, into his beautiful blue eyes.
And Sam—looks back at me. For a few moments, nothing happens. And then he slowly moves toward me.
My heart skips a beat.
He raises his hand and then—pushes the elevator button to my right.
I close my eyes.
The elevator. Right.
I disappear behind a curtain of embarrassment.
And I’d thought—what? That he was going to kiss me?
I’m such an idiot!
I open my eyes, determined to be sensible from now on. “So, what have you been doing out so late?” I ask.
“Jogging,” he says, pulling his sleeves down over his knuckles. “So, you’re coming back late from work?”
“Oh, no, I wasn’t at work. I was at a bar, celebrating my results with my lab friends.”
“Nice. Are these the results you told me about? Geriatric cells not sensing the food around them?”
“Yes, exactly!” This is good—me talking about science, about my lab. It brings me slowly back to the ground.
The elevator arrives and Sam pushes the iron gate open.
“So, how is your work going?” I say as I walk in.
He nods as he closes the door. “I think I’m being quite productive.”
That doesn’t sound very good. The more productive he is, the faster he’s finished with the project, and the faster he’s out of here.
“What kind of photographing are you doing right now?”
He takes a deep breath. “Well . . .” He looks away. “Let’s see. I’m doing some portraits. In fact, quite a lot of portraits.”
“Okay. Are you doing many people, or just a few?”
He looks into my eyes, then quickly looks away. “Well, it’s more like . . .” He closes his eyes for a second, then continues. “It’s only a few people, but I’m really sort of focusing on one person, actually . . .”
“A client?”
“Um, yeah, you could say that. One needs to take many images to find the perfect one. Though all of them are really perf—” He takes another deep breath. “And I also do quite a lot of buildings.”
“Buildings? What kind of buildings?”
“Well, mainly modern buildings.”
“Okay. Any specific details you’re interested in?”
“The . . . doors.” He coughs into his hand and looks away.
Okay, that’s a bit weird. But who am I to say? I love it when I see bright blue spots next to bright green ones while looking through the microscope. “Okay. I guess that sort of thing is determined by the client, right?”
“Yes. That’s exactly right.”
The third floor comes all too soon and we step out of the elevator. I keep glancing at him, trying to think of a way to stall his departure. “So, what do you think is the most important thing about photography?”
He looks at me for a moment before he answers. “It’s a bit difficult to say, but if I had to name one thing, I’d say it’s the light. You need to have good light.”
“Okay. I guess you must have strong flashbulbs, if you need them.”
“True, but sometimes I shoot outdoors, and then it’s difficult to use artificial light. You need to use what the daylight gives you.”
We stop in front of his door, and I’m feverishly trying to think what else I can ask him. But before I manage, he continues, “But you can get by all right if you have the right lenses and good equipment. On top of that, you can do a whole lot of retouching on the computer.”
“You mean like Photoshop?”
“Yes, programs like that.”
Then, an idea hits me. “You know, I’d love to see you at work sometime, if you have time.”
His face suddenly changes. His eyes open wide and I’m not quite sure he’s breathing.
He looks away, distracted, and says, “Yeah . . . um. Maybe. It might be difficult to organize . . . you know, because of the client . . .”
I lower my gaze. You’re a fool, Jane. He doesn’t want to spend time with you! He accepted the Bruins only because it’s his favorite team.
“No, don’t worry, Sam. I realize it’s a problem. It’s no big deal. You don’t have to—”
“No, no! It’s fine. I . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I would love to show you some of my photography. I just need to give it some thought. Okay?”
I look up at him. “Okay.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence stretches between him and me and back again, until I take a step to my door.
“Well, it was nice talking to you,” I say.
He looks back and his expression is back where I want it: beautiful, calm, and inviting. “It was. Sleep well, Jane.”
“Good night, Sam.”
“Good night.”
I turn around and walk to my door, managing not to look back.
Once inside, I lean on the door, thinking.
What made him so uncomfortable when I asked to see him at work? He’s out in public most of the time anyway, surrounded by people. Why wouldn’t he want me to see him working?
Hmm.
I go into the living room, leaving my shoes in the hallway.
When I was in high school, I had a good friend, Alex, who was absolutely superb at drawing. But he never wanted anyone to see him doing it. He said he felt naked when he drew.
Maybe it’s the same with Sam?
Maybe he feels naked too?
Oh . . .
I close my eyes and swallow. This is the wrong image to have in my mind right now. I lick my lips.
Well . . . maybe not.
And, anyway, a little daydreaming never hurt anyone . . .
I smile at my inner thoughts and head for my bedroom.