Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
We talk about first times. His, with Daniel, and later on with women. Mine with girls at my school, fumbling and exploring and realizing how to make other people feel good with touch.
It’s already nearly sunrise when Logan asks me about how I got into painting, and by the time I’ve gone on long enough about oil paints versus watercolors, I look over and see him drifting off on the couch, right as purple-blue light starts to emerge from the horizon outside.
I lay down beside him, tucking my head near his shoulder on the couch.
I feel like I could never sleep.
Like I’m wired, and I’ll be laying there watching the sunrise, wondering how I got lucky enough to know him.
But I do fall asleep.
With his warmth radiating onto me and breathing in his scent.
And I don’t know I’ve slept too long until it’s too late.
I wake up as a cloud passes through the sky and a bright pillar of sunlight hits my eyes directly.
I’m on the couch alone.
I blink as I look at the coffee table and see a note from Logan:
Had to get to set by 9am. Decided to let you sleep.
You are perfect, by the way. And this is *my* note, so you can’t argue with me on it.
Perfect.
In every way.
Dinner later?
Xx
L
The note makes me feel like I’m wrapped up in him all over again. Clouds pass over the sun again, draping the suite in the dim, grey light it must have been in all morning.
I pick up my phone for the first time since my shift last night, and the most recent notification catches my eye first.
And my stomach drops when I check the time.
“Holy fuck,” I say out loud.
I slept until two o’clock in the afternoon.
I can’t even remember the last time I did that. It had to have been long before I quit drinking.
And then a spike hits my chest as I remember what I had planned this morning.
There are three messages from Xander, spanning the course of the last two hours.
Xander Rousseau
Still going to come to our studio today?
Chase?
No need to bother. Thank you.
My mind shatters, like a pool cue hitting a cluster of billiard balls.
After everything I talked about with Logan last night, and after he broke down, I completely forgot that I had a meeting with Xander today.
“Shit. Shit.”
He’s been my favorite photographer in the city for years. I’d gone to art shows of his, and I once considered saving up three paychecks to be able to pay for an original framed print of his, before I realized I couldn’t possibly afford it.
I screwed it up.
Through my forgetfulness, my one-track mind, and because this is just what I do.
Last night, I could have set an alarm on my phone for this morning.
But I forgot.
I could have told Logan about the appointment, and he would have known to wake me.
But I forgot.
Just like I always forgot to do homework back in school, and it got so bad that I just stopped trying to do it altogether even though I knew I had the ability. And just like things used to slip from my hands when I took too many drugs or drank myself into oblivion.
Now there’s no excuse.
Chase Cameron
I am so sorry. Something serious came up, and I wasn’t able to make it. Can we reschedule for a later time?
Xander Rousseau
No, thank you.
Something feels dirty inside me, like there’s sludge coating me from within.
I navigate to my email in a flash and rapidly tap out responses, one after another, to other photographer opportunities that had arrived in my inbox last night, saying that I’m interested even in offers that I don’t investigate.
I’m grasping at straws.
None of the other offers are at the level of Xander. Nothing close. They’re smaller firms, and even a couple of event photography places, but at the moment I feel like I’d do anything.
Yesterday, at the end of my shift in the restaurant, I had been wondering if it might be the last time I ever had to work there. I had thought that I’d finally gotten a break. That I could start to make money in the creative field that I love.
Now I feel desperate.
My stomach still feels sick. I get up off the couch and head to the shower, letting the hot water beat down over me.
When I’m out, I scan through my email, and my gut twists again.
Not one, but multiple people have replied, saying they no longer have interest.
What the fuck is going on?
I already have to get ready to go to work. Luckily I still have a clean uniform here in the suite from when I was staying here, and I toss it on, heading downstairs to the restaurant.
When I walk into the kitchen, though, David turns to look at me, his expression grim.
“Chase. Could you come with me into the office?”