“Holy cow,” I gasp, taking in the massive bathroom. There’s a walk-in shower with gorgeous tile and glass doors, as well as a big garden tub. “I could swim laps in that tub!”
Mack snorts. “You and baths. You always loved them, with lots of bubbles.”
“They’re one of the purest joys in life, Mack,” I tell him, setting my bag down on the closest bed.
He follows suit, setting the baby carrier on the other bed and taking Oliver out. “I can’t get over just sitting there in your own filth.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s dumb. It’s not like I roll around out on the dirt track before getting into the tub.”
When he doesn’t reply, I glance his way, only to find his eyes…on my ass.
He looks up and doesn’t bat an eye at the fact I just busted him checking me out. In fact, he seems very relaxed and maybe a bit smug about it. There’s something quite sexy about a man holding a baby. Maybe it’s just him. Perhaps it’s the way Mack looks holding his son.
I keep myself busy and try not to think about the man I’m sharing a hotel room with by unpacking my suitcase. When my belongings are in a drawer, the closet, or on the bathroom vanity counter, I pull my trusty camera out of my bag. I’ve only used it a handful of times, mostly to snap a few pictures of Oliver, but I’ve managed to grab a few candids of father and son together without him noticing.
With my camera in hand, I head over to the bed, where Oliver is stretched out, kicking his pudgy little legs. I bring my beloved film camera up and press the button, the familiar sound of the shutter filling the hotel room. I smile down as Oliver stares up at me, his arms flailing around. It’s not his hungry freakout, but one of excitement.
“Why are you so enthusiastic?” I ask, bringing my camera up and taking another few pictures.
“You still using that old thing?” Mack asks, standing off to the side and watching me photograph his son.
I glance at my vintage Nikon F2. These babies were manufactured from 1971 to 1980, and at the time, considered one of the best professional 35mm film cameras on the market. I found it at a flea market, thrown in a box of puzzles, when I was fourteen. The moment I saw it, I had to have it. My dad haggled the guy down from fifty bucks to twenty, and we left that day with more than just a camera. I found my passion, my calling.
“Well, she’s still as amazing as she was back in the day, so why would I get rid of her?” I ask, snapping another photo of Oliver.
“I guess I thought you’d use the digital one more,” he replies, still casually leaning against the wall.
When I turn around, I bring the camera to my face, center him in the view finder, and snap a picture. “Digital is great for Saturday night races. I can edit them on my laptop and upload them quickly in a massive group. But there’s nothing like taking photos with a film camera, not knowing if they’re any good or not until they’re developed. Plus, you know how much I love to develop film,” I remind, a happy little smile on my lips.
He smiles back. “I remember.”
That look, the one with laugh lines framing the corner of his eyes and those sexy, full lips turned upward, is the one I recall the most. The boyish look, happy after a race or with grease under his nails. Before I can even stop myself, I bring the device back to my face and press the shutter, capturing that smile once more.
A tension fills the room, one laced with sex and desire. His eyes turn from laughing to something darker, something dirtier. The air seems to crackle with something recognizable, something meaningful, something that’s laid in wait, dormant. All it needs is the cue, a sign, and it’ll unleash a force I haven’t felt in a while.
Three years, to be exact.
Oliver cries out, breaking the trance we both seem trapped in. I blink rapidly as Mack pushes off the wall and approaches. His eyes are on me, but he doesn’t stop when he reaches me. Instead, he goes to the bed, to his son. Mack swoops him up carefully and raises him to his head. He places his mouth on Oliver’s belly and blows out. I’m right there, capturing the moment with my camera.
“I think this one’s hungry,” Mack says, bringing him down to the crook of his arm.
“I’m sure he is. If you want to change him, I’ll get the bottle ready,” I reply, turning and heading for the diaper bag to retrieve the supplies.
“Sure, sure, leave me the dirty job,” Mack hollers, stretching out the changing pad and placing his son on top of it.
“I’m no dummy,” I retort, taking the formula can and water bottle to the counter. While I make up Oliver’s spaghetti and meatballs, I listen in as Mack talks, telling his son how nasty his diaper is. I’m pretty sure I even hear a few gags coming from the sleeping area.
When the bottle is ready, the boys are heading to the sitting area, both much happier after the pants change. The moment he’s in position, he sticks the bottle in Oliver’s waiting mouth and gazes down lovingly.
Quietly, I grab my camera off the counter and snap another photo of the two together. This time, Mack knows I’m there and is looking directly at me. There’s residual tension there, as if we both have something to say, but don’t say it. There’s no use, right? One of us is leaving in a handful of weeks, so why bring up the past. Or worse yet, cloud the present and future.
“I think I’m going to run through the shower,” I tell him, aiming a thumb behind where I stand.
“Okay,” he replies, those dark
