Page 12 of The Photo
Drop the shell, Noah. Drop the goddamn shell!
There are two parts to my whipped-up adrenaline. I’m one half thrilled and overjoyed, so much so that my heart is pumping faster than it’s ever needed to before. The other half is struggling to accept the tiny shred of silent hope vanquished by the hope slayer. Noah is still in Rio.
For ninety percent of the flight, I played out a silly romantic meeting using my overactive imagination, where Noah strolls into the photography exhibition, ignores the crowd and saunters straight over to me with that smoldering gaze of his. He wears a biker jacket, tight tee and an indecent grin that tells the room he’s into me—only me.
Alas.
He’s in Rio.
I’m in Ontario.
The daydream withers away.
I pause, studying the defined curves mapping his very tanned abdomen. It looks like he’s been spray painted with gold and summer sunshine. His smile is natural, lifted to one side with a secret I hope only we share. Thick hair the color of rich cocoa sweeps back from his forehead like he's just ran his fingers through it, and he holds a pale pink shell bigger than your average sized shell over his manhood. As far as shells go, it’s incredible. So what lies beneath it has to be too.
I tap and save, then check his social media feed for the same image, hoping he only sent it to me.
It’s not there. In fact, his account is quiet with zero activity. I look at the photo again and sigh when my belly quivers. If I ever touch this guy, it’ll shock me like an electric eel.
That will never happen.
There will always be miles between us.
Why did he send me the photo? I shirk off the notion that maybe, just maybe, he likes phony vampires, namely me.
Chelsea waves over, teetering on tip toes to catch my attention. I elevate the phone at arm’s length and snap a photo of the arrivals sign, adding the comment, ‘Irish Girl in Ontario’ and #PhotographyConvention.
Now he knows I’m here for only three days and attending an event, not mindlessly traipsing the streets on the hunt for his apartment block.
* * *
After checking in to our hotel both physically and virtually, we spend day one getting settled in the big city. Chelsea and I walk the streets of downtown until our feet hurt. The balmy climate gives me a happy vibe, like I’m on a proper holiday, not just a city break with college. Everything is different, even the shade of sunlight appears more vivid and interesting.
I flounced and flapped in bed all night, probably because the air conditioning numbed the tip of my nose, and Chelsea mumbled insistently. I swear she mentioned Post Malone delivering a banana pizza to her granny's house.
I never mentioned Noah’s selfie photo to her. It’s my secret. Anyway, who would share something so extraordinary for it all to fall apart? For now, I’ll cherish the idea that it was sent for my eyes only.
He must have seen the photo of my arrival in Canada. It didn't get a response. And I’m guessing he’s working, or backing away with safety sirens blasting. If he’s smart, he’ll acknowledge the real reason I’m here and not jump to conclusions or block me on his account. That would be irrational and unfair, but I guess it would be understandable too.
On the second day, they framed my showcase photograph with a thin aluminum frame, and it hangs on the wall with the rest. I’m overcome with pride, not only for myself and the hard work I’ve put into this course but for Chelsea too. Her aim is to become a famous blogger, capturing precise and quirky interiors or renovations of derelict architecture.
“They look good on the wall under the spotlights.” I beam. Chelsea fans her eyes like that will stop the tears welling. It doesn’t, and she sobs.
“We’ve come so far since that day Spud Head paired us together.” The nip of her nails biting my arms makes me flinch.
“I can’t believe you see the resemblance too.” I’ve never verbalized my thoughts on the matter and find it incredible that she sees a potato. “His head is such a peculiar shape.” I glance back through the crowds to make sure he’s out of earshot.
Chelsea dabs her eyes with a tissue. “If a man with a dense potato head is married, then there’s hope for us yet.” She sucks in a deep, wistful breath. “I need one of those pink frosted donuts we had yesterday. My body is craving sugar. It must be the whole time travel thing. Are we in the future or in the past?”
“We’re in the present,” I snicker, bumping shoulders with her.
“Speaking of presents—what about that donut?” She turns into me, pushes out her bottom lip and swats her lashes.
“We can’t leave.” I shrug.
“Wecan’t leave, butyoucould sneak out. I’ll keep Spud Head occupied.” Big pleading eyes stare right at me.
“Okay.” I give in. “If anyone is looking for me, tell them I’m at the toilet.” My fingers jangle a few loose coins in my purse. There’s just enough change to buy a donut to share. “We’ll have to split one. I won’t have time to grab more Canadian dollars from our room safe.”
