He shakes his head, but it explains nothing.
“I want you,” he says. “But I want other things too. I don’t want to be unfair to you.” He steps back from me. “I’m being terribly flaky. I wish I could tell you more, and I probably should . . .”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to spill all his secrets, so I step forward and press my finger to his lips.
“You don’t owe me anything,” I say. “We’re not at ‘divulge all the secrets’ stage yet.”
I say it to let him off the hook he’s wiggling on, but in truth, I say it to buy myself some more time. If he’s about to toss me back into the water, I don’t want to go. I’m being awfully selfish, but I need this—him—right now.
He presses his eyes closed as if keeping it in is as hard as letting it out.
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says. “But I really would like you to stay.” He pushes a lock of my hair behind my ears. “If you don’t need to leave right away.”
“It is pretty messy out there right now,” I say, nodding at the door and the storm just outside it.
A good, hard, spring rain blurs the world outside the window, while inside there is the safety of someone moving slowly and intentionally—someone as confused as I am, but someone who desires my company.
“Stay?” he asks softly. “I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
He looks like a lost soul eager to be found. There’s a desperate note of urgency to his voice that I can’t place and a shadow of distraction to his eyes, as if he’s going through some obstacle course no one else can see and he doesn’t know the right way to get through it.
“Do you have any lemons?” I ask. “Or cherries?”
“Pardon?” Oliver asks.
“If I stay, I need to work,” I say. If I don’t I’ll get too distracted. “I’ve got my camera out in the car. I really do have a deadline. Mind if I tool around your kitchen?”
He exhales and smiles.
“Not a bit,” he says. “You work. I’ve got some reading to do. I’ll be around.”
I have the sudden feeling that I’m in someone else’s life, that if I looked in a mirror I’d see someone else’s face. I check the clock—seven p.m. I haven’t heard from Cassie. I imagine her and Lola curled up on the couch in front of the television.
Oliver helps me bring in my camera equipment from the car. I have a small tabletop setup that allows me to travel shoot. In Oliver’s kitchen I find three lemons, a nice blue glass, some basil leaves, and some strawberries. I can work with this. Number twenty-seven is a strawberry and herb-infused concoction.
“I’ll give you some space,” he says. “Call if you need me. It’s nice having you here.”
“Thanks,” I say, feeling a pleasant wave of relief, a peaceful comfort.
“It’s been a while since there was anyone here other than me,” Oliver says. “I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of someone else moving around.”
He walks out of the kitchen, leaving me with my lemons and too many questions.
I arrange the ingredients and tweak the lighting. I shoot a few shots and then rearrange, take a few more. I don’t have to do this now, I could just politely excuse myself, but I want to stay. It seems we are both hiding from something, but for now, that’s ok.
I make the recipe as best I can remember it. I taste the lemonade. Not bad. All the while I’m eyeing this angle and setting up for another one, my mind is going back to Oliver. I look around for my old friend, guilt. I wonder if I left him at the cemetery. He’s going to be pretty mad when he realizes he has to float home on his own.
I chuckle out loud. Don’t worry, old friend. I’ll come get you soon.
I set up the shoot in a different way and begin again.
“Why are you taking pictures of lemonade?” Oliver asks, coming back in. “I thought you worked for a cookbook company.”
“I do,” I say. “This is my job there.”
“Lemonade photographer?” he asks. “Cool.”
Cool. I’m dating someone who says the word “cool.”
I stop short at the word dating. Is that what I’m doing? Is that was this is? My heart races at the implication of moving forward like this.
“I’m a food stylist and photographer,” I say, talking to stop from thinking. “I’m working on a book called 32 Ways to Make Lemonade.”
“You’re kidding,” he says and hoists himself up on the far counter. “There are thirty-two ways to make lemonade? I thought it was all lemon juice, water, and sugar.”
“Essentially,” I say. “I guess the difference is what you do to it then.”
“Spice it up, you mean,” he says. “You ever tried a Sweet Tart?”
“Like the candy?” I ask and click off another shot.
“Sort of,” he says. “It tastes like candy. Before I switched majors, some college friends of mine and I used to drink it all the time. You just take lemonade and add in some Southern Comfort. Voila.”
I look up at him, surprised. “You mean to tell me that you and your college dudes were drinking something called a Sweet Tart?”
He winks and smiles. I lift the camera and take a shot of him.
“All right, you got me,” he says. “We made it for the ladies. Like I said, it tastes like candy.”
“You’re the devil,” I say, joking.
He chuckles to himself. “I used to be,” he says and hops down from the counter. “But I changed my ways and became a new man.”
“And now you have it all figured out?” I ask, hopeful that maybe someone does.
“I thought I did. But I took a
