Page 12 of The Oscar Escape
It sounded right up his alley.
From the birth of a baby giraffe in Africa to ice skaters in Sweden to following a dance troop across China, he’d experienced much of the world employed as a photographer, videographer, and freelance documentarian jack-of-all-trades. He didn’t do it for the money—which wasn’t spectacular. It was the pace. The constant movement sustained him. The incessant focus muted the whispers in the darkest corners of his mind. Alone with nothing to keep his attention, a barrage of images would come to him—apples on the ground, squares of caramel scattered about, and an emptiness he’d filled with guilt.
He touched the ring around his neck. “When would they need me for this gig?”
“In three weeks.”
“How long is it?” he asked, his voice rough from barely speaking for the last two weeks.
“Eight months, give or take a week. It’s a world tour.”
He slipped the chain under his gray hoodie. “Book it.”
“Don’t you want more information?” Inez pressed.
He watched the cigarette smoke swirl in the dim light. “I don’t need it. All I need to know is that I’ll be on the road.”
“I’ll let them know. Have you thought anymore about branching off and starting your own documentary production company?”
Could he run the whole show when it came to producing docs? Sure. But that involved a level of commitment he wasn’t ready—or simply couldn’t—agree to.
He rubbed his bleary eyes. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“And Oscar?”
“Yeah?” he replied, his knee bouncing with pent-up energy.
“You sound a little keyed up. Are you taking care of yourself? Are you cooking? That relaxes you.”
He surveyed the sea of crumpled takeout bags and a mountain of meal-size cardboard boxes littering the bench inside the truck. There was indeed more evidence of his lack of cooking on the passenger side floorboards. Thankfully, it was too dark to view the smattering of grease-stained receipts, discarded ketchup packets, and plastic utensils scattered throughout the vehicle. But that’s what happened when he focused on a subject. He let everything else go to shit.
But he couldn’t tell that to Inez.
“I’m eating,” he answered and tossed an empty cardboard burger box onto the floor to chill in the condiment graveyard.
“I’ll take that to mean that you’re not cooking or thinking of returning to culinary school.”
He took a long drag off the smoke. Here it comes. “Did my dad and my Charlotte ask you to call me?”
“No, your father andyourCharlotte didn’t ask me to call you. I do have to say, it’s sweet that you still call hermy Charlotte.”
He couldn’t help but crack a smile. It might have been his first in two weeks.
My Charlotte.He could remember the first time he’d spoken those words.
After his mother passed away suddenly from an aneurysm when he was just a young boy, he’d gone to live with his father and a young woman hired to be his nanny, Charlotte Ames. The last person he’d wanted to be with was his dad—a dad he’d hardly known at the time. At the tender age of six, he was angry, completely lost without his mother, and itching to lash out—a trait he’d inherited from his once-hotheaded celebrity chef father.
With her warm grin and gentle ways, Charlotte had made the transition more manageable, and he’d started calling hermyCharlotte. His dad had the same idea. When the man married his nanny, Oscar was overjoyed. With Charlotte by their side, he and his dad had grown closer. The arrival of his half-sister eight years ago had made them a family of four. He treasured being a big brother to little Ivy Madelyn Elliott. But thanks to his nomad ways, a wedge had grown between himself and his parents over the last few years.
“Themy Charlottebusiness might be the last bit of sweetness I’ve got in me.”
“I don’t know about that,” Inez replied with a knowing bend to her words. “I hear you’re a pretty great big brother.”
Another smile graced his lips.
“I do know your family is worried about you,” Inez continued. “We know you can get engrossed in your work. It’s easy to see how you can lose yourself to it. It often takes you across the country or even around the globe at the drop of a hat. That’s not always a bad thing—especially for an artist. Butwehave noticed a pattern.”
He bristled at the wordweand lost the grin. The notion that his family had engaged in a group chat about his current life choices sent a prickling sensation through his veins. “And what pattern is that?”
