He’s not the focus of the shot. He’s off to the side, trapped between Elana and Carlton, the only one who looks still, as if he’s waiting.
There are almost too many to choose from for my last four slots. I spend a lot of time going back and forth. There’s a minor breakdown at three in the morning when my mask for a shot of Sebastian, reflection distorted by the ripples in his pool, completely falls apart.
Despite the nerves and pressure and overwhelming amount of self-doubt, I have to admit that it’s good to look at these pictures again. The sight of him from that night down in the dungeon, eyes soft and sure as he gazes up from my chest, is easily one of my best.
It’s going to be one of the worst to show, too.
By five, I’m finally back in my dorm, apologizing to Georgia when the glow of my laptop monitor briefly stirs her from slumber. I only have four hours before I need to start setting up my wall in the gym. Luckily, the last photo is the easiest, being digital. But it’s also the hardest to look at.
I’d taken the picture through the bonfire. Sebastian’s face is staring through it, back at the camera. It’s as if he’s been engulfed by the flames. The first time I saw it, I thought he looked like a demon, with those piercing, unnaturally bright eyes of his. Plus, the look on his face, something intensely private, like he’s been caught in a moment of weakness he doesn’t want to admit.
But when I open up the file, I find that he doesn’t look like a demon at all.
He looks like a god.
I’m harried and exhausted as I nervously supervise the couple of seniors hanging my photos. I don’t know them, but they don’t look too excited to be here at nine on a Saturday morning, so I try to make it easy for them.
The gym has been transformed for the showcase. There are two rows of slanted walls with a large aisle between them. They’ve been set up so that each display is as contained as possible. From my own designated wall, I can’t see anyone else’s photos. The special lights that have been installed shine a touch too brightly for my liking, so I make a mental note to bring something that tones that down.
Unlike some of the others, I don’t have a big fancy display going on. I have an order and placement. Beyond that, I want the work to speak for itself.
A few of the others are milling around—I see a couple people have draped sheer fabric over their cubbies, battling the brightness issue—but everyone seems too distracted to talk much. Still too nervous to really stand back and look at my own, I take a moment to go scope out everyone’s stuff.
Micha and Michaela are too young to have nabbed a spot in the showcase, but they’re still represented. Near the back is a single wall, filled with pieces from the club. There are some pieces that are probably really nice, but because I haven’t slept more than twenty minutes in two days, I barely process them.
Deciding to go back to my dorm for what’s likely to become an eight-hour nap, I head back to my own cubicle to grab my bag.
I freeze at the shape of someone else occupying the space.
My heart slams into gear, vision going a little blurry at the edges. Sebastian is standing there, gym bag slung over his shoulder as he stares vacantly at the photos. If possible, he looks even more tired than I do. The bruising around his eyes has faded to a mottled, sickly-looking yellow. He’s wearing a hooded sweatshirt with a smirking devil on the back, and his hair is more lifeless than usual, hanging limply around his face. His jaw is covered with thick stubble that I’ve watched grow from afar over the past week.
It should make me feel better, seeing him like this, knowing that he’s a fucking mess.
It doesn’t.
He’s still gorgeous.
With a steeling breath, I gather up every ounce of courage I possess and walk softly to his side. From here, I can smell him—the lingering scents of old soap and cigarette smoke. I keep my eyes straight ahead on the photos, but I can still feel him stiffen beside me, going stock still.
“You’re up early.” It’s a testament to my exhaustion that my voice emerges in a flat, but even tone.
There’s a long beat of silence before his low voice responds. “Had to clean out my locker. Quit the team.”
I look at him in confusion, but his eyes are still fixed to the photo, hooded and unblinking. “Why?
” He doesn’t answer, just moves his eyes to another of the photos—the one of the Devils. Inhaling, I look away. “So, I got my car back.”
From my periphery, I can see his head turn, blue eyes finally landing on me. “What?” His voice, low and tight, sounds surprised. A little bit angry, too.
“Merle called me yesterday morning,” I explain. “Told me it was ready, so I went and picked it up.”
His hand flexes around the strap of the bag, an almost imperceptible movement, before he looks away again. “Right.”
“It’s amazing,” I say, remembering the drive I’d taken after picking it up. I’d driven around Northridge, up to the hills, and then to that little spot overlooking the lake. I sat there for a long time, trying to reconcile the man who first brought me there and the one who so callously threw me away. “Well, ‘amazing’ doesn’t actually do it justice. It’s the…” My voice cracks, and fuck. Fuck. This is why I wanted to wait. I clear my throat, finishing, “It’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me.”
Sebastian is silent next to me, still rigid and motionless. “Merle does good work,” he finally says. The words land tonelessly between us.
“Yeah.” I nod to myself, muttering, “Sure, Merle.” If possible, he goes even more rigid. He’s clearly not ready to fess up, but he knows.