Page 7 of Lost Love on 6th Street

Her words drift away as I focus in on the photo. That’s The Lone Star alright. And that’s . . .

“I couldn’t find any information on the person from the database, so I . . . I don’t know, I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to see if I could find out some information by talking to people. She just deserves to be immortalized.”

I rip my eyes from the photo and clear my throat. “We’re here.”

3

ELEANOR

We stop suddenly in front of a club. I scan my surroundings. Looks a hell of a lot different than the picture, but then again, it’s been almost thirty years. I shouldn’t be so surprised.

There’s a line pouring out the front door, waiting to get in. And the marquee reads “Fried Polyester.” Naming a band is an interesting art form, that’s for sure.

“Sorry, do you mind holding a couple of these so I can . . .” Luke inclines his stubbled chin toward the picture.

“Sure, of course.” I take a few of the bags to free up one of his hands so he can take a closer look at the picture. His fingertips brush my hand in the process, and I try to pretend it doesn’t feel amazing. Not sure if that’s because it’s been a long while since I’ve had any physical touch from a man or if it’s because of Luke himself.

I have to admit, I’m shocked he’s giving me the time of day like this. Must be that good old Texas charm. In Chicago, guys in suits wouldn’t have even looked at me. And frankly, the only reason I would have looked at a guy like him back home was if he was standing in my way at a cross walk, not paying any mind to where his body was in space. The finely pressed suits and slicked-back hair were a certain type back home.

However, Luke isn’t like that. He’s a different breed altogether. He cares about his appearance without trying to look like a buttoned-up banker. He’d stick out like a sore thumb back home in his tailored tweed suit. Though there’s product in his golden-brown hair, it still looks like a breeze could brush it out of place. And his smile, while charming, isn’t ridiculously white.

I watch as he takes in the photo. His height could cast a shadow on me. Must be nearly a foot taller.

His eyes work across the image, and I can tell it’s not just a picture to him either. He scrutinizes, peruses, and maybe even wonders.

“You want to figure out who this is?” he asks, eyes rising to meet mine.

His baby blues are devastating. I nearly lose my spot in my own brain. “Um. Yeah. You know, I’m a historian in a way. And I’m just curious what the story is. It’s not for work, this is my own personal quest.”

Luke’s intense gaze turns genial again. He smiles and hands back the photo. “That’s admirable of you.”

I try to ignore the knife to the gut. Admirable. Like it’s cute.

“I’d like to help you.”

Wait. “What?” That’s not condescending like I thought he was trying to be.

“I’ve been in this scene a long time. I know a lot of people, could get you the right contacts and—” Luke does a doubletake and slides his phone out of his pocket. “Listen, I’ve gotta get these gummies to the band.”

I nod. “Right, well, let me give you my number and we can—”

“Davy!” Luke calls out to the man at the door and points at me. “I want her put on the photographer list.”

I shake my head in shock. What is happening? “The photographer list?”

“Yeah, you stay, take some pictures and we’ll talk afterward,” Luke says as if it makes the most sense in the world. “Unless you’ve got plans or a date or something.”

“A date? No, I don’t—”

“Perfect. Here, I’ll take these.” He scoops the gummies out of my arms. “And I’ll see you after the show, okay?”

Luke starts to step away. I follow on his heels. “Wait, I’m not an event photographer. It’s just something I do for fun, it’s not like . . . something I do.”

It used to be the thing I wanted to do most in the world. The trade I learned in college. Like I said, I’m lucky to have a job in my industry. Photojournalism, though, isn’t the easiest field to break into. So, I settled for behind the scenes. I’m happy with that. Photography is just a hobby now.

“What do you mean it’s not something you do?” Luke asks, the smile on his face effervescent. “You’ve got the camera. You take pictures, right?”

“Well, there’s a lot of different kinds of photography,” I say. Wedding photography is different from music photography is different from nature photography. But I’m getting ahead of myself. “It’s a generous offer, but really, I wouldn’t know the first thing about concert photography.”

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