Page 15 of The Photo
The universe has blown a dirty wet raspberry in my face.
I was literally knocked off my feet by Noah Adams, except there was zero romance involved. I practically took him out with my head. Not only that, he was with an elegant, tall woman whose eyes popped when he said my name. The second our eyes locked, the fascination flame became doused in fuel, setting my soul on fire.
I’ve visualized meeting the man so many times that it literally happened. Only the meeting didn’t go how I’d planned it out in my mind. If you could even call it a meeting. It was more of a catastrophic fuck up.
The whole shock and pain of my collision is mortifying. I tried to laugh it off, but for some odd reason, a lump stuck in my throat and tears stung. Admittedly, they weren't full tumbling tears, but he still saw them.
I groan, traipsing along the pavement with injured hands and hurt pride. Then I groan again, with more gusto this time because I remember how Noah just stood there, assessing my messy hair, red face and deranged laugh, all within an awkward silence. I bet he’s running faster than Forrest Gump to secure a restraining order.
I’m so embarrassed.
I’ve returned to the event without a donut.
My phone is busted and broken.
Noah Adams thinks I’m a fucking idiot.
“What the hell happened to you?" Chelsea rushes over the second I reappear. “Potato Head thinks you've got the flight shites.”
“What?” I snap, clutching my arms close to my belly. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s when your bowels react to the adjustment of time travel, or whatever. I’m sorry. It kinda took off with a life of its own. I said you had a funny tummy and Sam ran with it. He’s a dick.”
I growl when Sam salutes at me from the other side of the room, patting his gut and offering a knowing smile. “Jeez, can this day get any worse?” I mumble. “And I didn’t get a donut.”
“Are you okay?” Chelsea rubs my arm. The friendly movement draws me closer to her bicep.
“You won’t believe this—but—I met Noah.”
Chelsea freezes. “Say what now?”
“I’m so mortified,” I whimper, cringing inside. My eyes close briefly until the memory fizzles out. “I crashed right into him. My head was down. I was walking and simultaneously creeping on his Insta account. Oh Jesus.” The memory is too raw. “I bashed into his chest and fell over.” My cheeks puff out when I sigh. “He was with a woman. I think it was Alexa Rossi. But that's not the worst of it.” At this point my belly is arguing with my intestines as to which part is more knotted. “He barely spoke to me. No friendly comments like, ‘Hey, you’re the Irish vampire,’ or ‘Didn’t we chat on social?’. Nada. Zilch.” A hand flies to my stomach. “Ugh! I feel sick.”
“Oh.” That's all she says, then stares at me for a beat with her mouth open. “I’m sorry, Rowan.” She semi nods in disbelief. “Who would have thought you’d actually meet him.”
“Yup. I have to unfollow him now, don’t I?” I mumble.
Her mouth forms a pity smile. “Probably.”
We both agree on what needs to be done. It's the cold, hard reality. If I continue with this crazy Noah obsession, then I really will appear a tad unhinged. A tiny bit cuckoo. A lot insane. Through the splintered cracks on my phone screen, I find his account and take an uncertain breath, then I select ‘unfollow’.
“There. It’s over.” My head thumps. “I’m off to wash my hands.” I amble towards the toilets on the far wall near the exit.
My face is still flushed with humiliation. The scratches have dried to thin crusty scabs, and flashes of the awful mid-adventure flip through my guts. In the blink of an eye, I met him and single-handedly detonated any romantic possibilities. Period.
I clean the tender skin with a wash of cool water and a dab of tissue paper. The bedraggled woman staring back at me in the mirror is angry at how I reacted. What must he think of me? All I had to do was apologize and hold a rational grown up conversation. He’s just a man, not a god, even if I’ve raised him miles high in my estimations.
I’m in Canada for my own gain, and that's to open doors for my career. I’ll finish college soon, and this exhibition is a wonderful opportunity to showcase my work.
My new focus has to be on me.
I wrangle with the tangles in my hair, shedding caught strands in the trash and inhaling for a count of three. And relax. It doesn’t work. I’m still devastated.
The gallery is crowded with critics studying every picture. Two of them mingle in front of mine, assessing the skill and blah, blah, blah. I should listen to their professional critique, but I’m exhausted. So I lean against a pillar and close my eyes briefly. The whole mortifying scene unfolds in my head again. I’ll never live this down.
“Rowan.” A baritone voice startles me, and my eyelids ping open.
My gaze slides sideways to where the deep rumble originated and there he is. Noah Adams is to my right with eyes shadowed by the peak of his royal blue sports cap. An angular jaw is accentuated by a dark five o’clock shadow. He wears a slate grey hoody with the zip left open and a white tee covering what I know are perfect abdominals. It’s exactly the same outfit as the coffee shop slam dunk, but now I’m on both feet, I have time to study him better.
