Look Again

He ducks his head and looks embarrassed.

A hot blush creeps up my neck. “I mean, the light is really good for your skin tone,” I say, knowing how dumb I sound. I wish I had a real camera, something to hide behind, but I’m grateful for the little rectangle of glass separating us.

Even with the bulk of body and lens, a camera always makes me feel closer to the subject I’m shooting. I hide back there, but I feel like we inhabit the same space. A phone seems to put distance between us. Maybe it’s the act of holding a phone, that barrier we’ve become used to. When someone holds a phone in front of them, I leave them alone. That little block of glass and metal is the universal signal for “keep out.” A real camera never feels that way to me. Now I click a few more photos, mostly of the side of Dexter’s head. He has a great profile.

He doesn’t look back at me until I stash the phone back in my pocket. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he says.

“What?”

“I didn’t want you to come here so you’d take pictures of me.”

I point to the trees. “You’re just the foreground. Look how gorgeous it is in here.”

“I know you think I’m full of myself,” he says, looking at his shoes.

“I don’t.” I’m lying.

“You’re lying.”

I can’t help it. I laugh. “You’re confident. That’s a good thing.”

Those words are true, even if they’re not actually what I mean.

“About some things. To a certain extent,” he says, and I don’t know what else to say. “Anyway,” he goes on, “I didn’t mean to get you in here to take my new headshots.” His voice is quiet, and I feel like there’s something he’s avoiding.

I shake my head. “Of course not. I’d use a real camera for that. You’re here. I’m here. Right place, right time. No big deal.”

As we break the shade line of the trees, I gasp. My hands reach out in front of me, as if I can get a handful of the view. “Oh, look at it!” I say, even though I know he’s looking at it. He brought me here. My voice hushes, a reverent whisper. “It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. What is it?”

Dexter matches my quiet tone as we stand in front of the gray stone building that seems to have grown up out of the earth alongside the trees. It has the feel of a Frank Lloyd Wright home, perfectly suited to its natural environment. “It’s the old chapel. Before political correctness and whatever, they held services and assemblies here. When I was a student, we had our small-class meetings. They’d bring all the freshmen in here, called it a congress, even though we never really understood what that was supposed to mean.”

The chapel shows signs of disuse, even neglect, which only makes it more charming. Vines and ivies grow up the stone walls. The windows wear a coat of dirt and grime, and I wish I was two or three times taller so I could press my nose against the glass.

“Can we go in?” I try to keep my voice level, but my excitement squeaks out.

Dexter tries the knob.

It doesn’t move.

“How are your lock-picking skills?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not in the job description. I didn’t know it would be required.”

“I’d have thought your Ivy League education would have prepared you for all eventualities.” He faces the door but smiles back at me over his shoulder. Why is that looking-back posture so endearing? And how does he know I have an Ivy League education? “No, it’s not required. But it does make life more interesting.” He fiddles around with the handle as I run my hands along the door frame, feeling layers of paint and examining the dovetail joints in the wood.

When then door swings open, I step back, shocked. “Did you really just break into a church?”

He turns to face me in the shadow of the door. “That depends. Are you impressed?”

“Little bit,” I admit. “Or maybe a lot.” I stick my head inside and inhale the musty, dusty smell of a disused room.

“Okay, yes. I’m impressed.”

He waves me inside. “I wish I deserved it. I have a key.” He shakes his little collection of keys on a leather strap. “Wait here just a second.”

He walks up to the front of the room, which really doesn’t look much like a church. Maybe because there are no benches. Don’t chapels usually have seating? He walks behind something that could be a podium or an altar or maybe a large coffee table, and through a door. I want to shout something so I can hear how the tall ceiling moves the sound. Seeing as I’ve already made myself look like a maniac this morning, I satisfy myself with whistling a tune. The ceiling draws the sound up and rolls it around, and I feel shivers on my arms.

Dexter must have found switches because lights come on all through the room. Neglected, but not cut off from the power grid. That’s a good sign. I move along the walls, holding my hand up in the direction of the windows and against the walls, checking the light against my skin.