Pictures of You

The door’s elaborate gold flashed in the sunlight as someone opened it from inside. A slight woman flitted through the gap. Grier. Even though her shape had changed, she gave off the same vibe she had as a teenager. She was intelligent, alert, and wary. At the speed she was clicking along, she’d disappear before he could say hello.

He hurried after her and caught her by the smooth curve of her shoulder.

She stiffened. Same as any normal woman would when some random dude grabbed her from behind. He had a sister, a mother. He knew better.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s me, Quint.”

As she turned, skirt flaring, she clapped her hand over her mouth. She blinked, dropped her hand, and her lips curved in a smile.

“Hi,” she said.

With her one syllable, brightness bubbled and dissolved some of the dark that’d shrouded him since Pop’s diagnosis. The strong midafternoon sun lit her up. She’d been adorable, but then she’d grown up into gorgeous. Her round face had resolved into defined cheekbones and a pert chin. Her chunky black glasses were gone, revealing sparkly hazel eyes that he could stare into for hours, if she’d let him.

“You’re stunning,” he blurted.

She laughed. “That’s the best pick-up line I’ve heard lately.”

“That wasn’t a line. It’s the objective truth.”

“The truth, huh?” She raked her gaze down his body. “Nice suit.”

“Thanks.” The Marc Jacobs three-piece was the most expensive suit he owned. He didn’t trot it out for every occasion—only the ones where he might run into certain redheaded crushes.

She fiddled with the zipper tab on her purse. “It’s been a while, huh?”

Six years and ten months. “Yes it has.”

“How was prom?”

“Lonely.”

A hand dryer, apparently powered by a jet engine, blasted from the men’s room. Grier tangled her fingers together, then tucked them over her chest. After a few beats, she unknotted her hands and touched his sleeve, sending vibrations through his body.

She nodded toward the picture window. “Let’s chat there? Prettier, and less interrupty.”

The rich green silk of her dress shifted over the contours of her body as she walked, and it got his blood pumping twice as fast, which was stupid since she’d made it clear she wasn’t into him. Exhibit A—radio silence for nearly seven years.

When she stopped and turned, he stood close enough to catch her cinnamon and vanilla scent. His pulse quickened to double-time, and he was seventeen again, sitting next to her on the sofa in her parents’ media room, watching romantic comedies—her choice—and televised concerts—his—with a fumbling uncertainty about how to make a move. Skill and certitude were more his style these days.

“Tell me about you,” he said. “Are you still a bubble-gum pop fanatic? Secret political progressive? How’s the stuffed animal zoo?” “Yes, and yes, and the zoo lives at my parents’ house. A mountain of stuffed animals would kill my hipster credit with my roommates.” “Even Barkimedes?” He’d given Grier a stuffed husky puppy for her sixteenth birthday, and she’d declared it perfect, with an ‘incredibly cuppable butt.’

He wasn’t proud that he’d been jealous of how she stroked a lump of plush.

“Yup.” She wove her arms together, and her flimsy purse dangled from her shoulder like a pendulum. “What about you? You still all about that bass?”

Of course she quoted Top 40 song lyrics. Courtesy of the music blasting in the gym in Manhattan, he knew them all. “No treble.”

“You understood a reference to a pop tune from this century?” She held the back of her hand to her forehead. “I may faint.”

He lifted his shoulders. “People can change.”

“Not always in a good way, right?” Grier’s delicate pearl drop earrings bobbed as she tilted her head. “You seem both happy and sad, John Aloysius Kincaid the Fifth. There’s this shadowy thing happening on your face.”

He wasn’t sure if he liked the accuracy of her guess. “Honest as ever, I see,” he said. “I’m all good. You?”

She twisted her lips and quirked her eyebrow, like she’d done a thousand times across their classrooms at Preston. It meant this is some bullshit, right here.

“Fine. Do you live in Baltimore now?” she asked. “I thought you’d moved away.”

“I worked in New York for a couple of years, but I’m home now.”

She glanced through the window at some passing sailboats. She was pondering, but what? Maybe she’d been easy to read back at Preston, but now? She’d gotten better at keeping her thoughts on lockdown. When he approached, she backed up, like she was trying to keep two feet between them. Her heel snagged on the carpet, and she wobbled. He caught her around the waist to steady her, and her muscles bunched in his grasp.

“Thanks,” she said. “But you can let me go now.”

The fabric of her dress soothed his palm as he released her. Damn, his arms had hummed with electricity with her in them. This was such a huge mistake. He never should have agreed to do this for his parents. Too many pitfalls, too many ways to open old wounds, except he couldn’t be mad about being with Grier. Especially when she blinked her big, interested eyes at him.

“What did you do in New York?” she asked. “Are you in a band?”

It made sense she assumed he’d gone for his dream, but he’d given it up ages ago. Life’s about trade-offs, and steady income was more important than a performance high. It didn’t matter if he impressed her. He was doing fine, and things had worked out. “Nah. I’m an analyst at an investment bank.”

Her forehead crinkled. “Which is what, exactly?”

How to explain it to someone outside the finance world? “Lemme see if I can boil it down. When companies need to raise money, they can do it by selling stocks, or bonds. Investment banks function as a bridge between big companies and investors interested in buying those stocks and bonds. We figure out what the pricing and other things like that. We also advise businesses and governments on financial problems, work to identify good investment prospects, help them get financing, et cetera.”

“Oh,” she said, pursing her lips.

His chest tightened. He’d been wrong. Impressing her mattered a little. “Are you disappointed?”

“No, but surprised. Music was your passion.”

“Passions don’t pay the bills. What about you? What do you do for a living?”

Another step away. She was either dodging him, or the question. He couldn’t be sure which, but he pursued her until they’d discoed to the window. “Photography, I guess?” She hitched her shoulders until they were practically next to her ears. “Since college I’ve donated my services or cut my rates. People deserve nice pictures, you know? I love shooting quirky stuff, at-home weddings, carnivals, Hon Fest. You know, the one with the parade of women sporting beehives and cat-eye glasses? I’ve recently decided to, um, change my business model.”

He wanted to hug the uncertainty from her, but he had no right. She was doing what she was meant to do. The way she viewed the world, and the people in it, had always been unique. Special. She’d seen him for who he was, after all. “G, don’t guess. You are a photographer. Own it.”

She glared at him, same way she used to when he was being obnoxious. Nostalgia and regret squeezed him hard. “You don’t know anything about me. I’m not…” She held up her hands, shook her head, then closed her eyes. When she reopened them, she pinned on a fragile smile. “It was…something…to run into you, but now I going to go…do…things.”

Quint clenched his jaw. He couldn’t let her fade away again. She shone in real life, more vivid and warm and touchable than the pictures he’d saved of her. There must be a way to make amends and at least get back to being buddies. After all, she’d hurt him too, and he was willing to forgive her. Couldn’t she do the same?

“Come on, stay for a minute.” He touched her elbow, steeling himself for the possibility she’d withdraw. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Have you?” She leaned toward him for a second then away, fighting the pull between them. Although, he could be wrong. She might’ve simply indulged in one too many cocktails.

“Often. I’d love to learn about the modern version of Grier Elizabeth Anne Cushman.” He lowered his voice and teased, “It’s okay to admit you’re curious about me.”

She tilted her head toward him. “I’m not the same person.”

He shrugged. “Does anyone change that much?” He locked in on her mood-ring eyes. If brown dominated, she was calm. Uh oh. Fiery emeralds meant ‘Angry Grier.’

“So if they used their friends in the past, chances are good they’ll do it again, right Quint?”

Ouch. He deserved that. “I—”

The fake smile was back. “Look,” she said. “This isn’t the right time for this. Catch you around.”

Though she yanked his heart from his chest, he couldn’t crumple and let her disappear. Not again.

“Got it.” He reached into his inner suit pocket, withdrew his business card then pressed it into her hand. “But when it’s the right time, when you’re not busy doing…” he hooked his fingers and scratched quotes into the air, “…things, call me.”

She narrowed her gaze at him. “Listen, I stink at witty comebacks—”

“See, that hasn’t changed.”

“In an hour, I’ll come up with the perfect response. Somewhere in Baltimore, I’ll be zinging you.” Grier whirled away.

“Promise?” he called after her.