I take a seat and smile awkwardly at the woman sitting behind the front desk and try to fade into the background since I’m in no hurry whatsoever to go in. But it’s hard to hide when you’re the only customer.
“Are you Angie?” She asks disapprovingly as she looks at me through thick spectacles from across the room.
“Yes, that’s me.” I cross my legs and squirm in the chair.
“Then you can go in. They’re ready for you.”
“Okay,” I say and continue to sit.
She lets almost another minute go by.
“They’re ready for you now,” she reiterates.
“Got it,” I reply and grab a magazine.
She stands and gives me a severe look. “Your presence is requested. Formally. Right now. In the room just behind the purple door there. Shall I open it for you?”
“Fine,” I say, throwing the magazine back on the stack and standing. I resign myself to my fate and enter the purple door.
Once I get inside, the photographer turns to me, an annoyed look on her face. I check my watch. I’m still five minutes early. What’s with these people?
A quick glance behind the photographer reveals Jake, sitting straight up on a couch, yet managing to look relaxed at the same time.
Of course, he’s used to this sort of thing. On the stage is a comfy looking couch that Jake is sitting on along with a few scattered chairs.
“Okay, we can get started now. Angie, why don’t you just pop up there on the couch with Jake?”
Jake smirks at me. Like he didn’t ruin Puppy-Thon. Like he’s a freaking hero. Like I’m going to go sit next to him.
I walk up onto the stage and then veer away from the couch and sit on an uncomfortable wooden chair because it’s the farthest one from where Jake is sitting.
Am I being petty and immature? Yes. I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible and with as little Jake interaction as I can manage.
The photographer watches me cross the room and sit. She clears her throat. “Um, can you please sit over there? Next to him?” Her gaze follows her finger that points at me and then sweeps in the opposite direction to Jake, and then back to me again.
In response, I pull the old wooden chair across the floor in the opposite direction of Jake. In order to do so, I have to avoid eye contact very specifically with the photographer. And she’s not making it easy.
The old wooden chair emits a skreeeeeeeeeonch noise the entire time that it scrapes across the floor. It makes my teeth chatter in revulsion. The noise is more than just annoying, it’s enough to unnerve something in my soul.
In any other situation, I would have ceased the moment I heard it, but not today. Not right now. Oh no, right now I am sliding this chair just as far to my left as I can get without physically falling off the stage. To stay as far away from Jake as possible.
And believe me, throwing myself off the stage has crossed my mind.
Opposite me now is the photographer lady, who's face has just reached a level of annoyed that I have seldom seen on a human being in public. I risk another quick glance up at her to confirm my suspicion. Yup, she’s mad.
The photographer is a take-no-shit older woman with short brown hair in a tight ponytail, jeans, boots, and a designer looking top. Taken together, her fashion ensemble reads like she's trying to tell the world to look at her or not. She really doesn't care.
And I fully support that attitude. I have nothing against her, it's just that I'm busy scooting away from the guy on the other end of the stage.
When the noise stops, I realize that I may have gone too far. One leg of my chair is poised perilously over the edge of the stage. I wobble precariously. Yep, this'll do. I scoot my body weight all the way over to the right to offset the weight to keep myself from falling.
"Now, hang on a moment," the photographer says. Her face and dour expression are aimed squarely at me. "I'm confused, because I specifically remember asking you to scoot to your left."
"Yes?" I ask innocently.
"And you scooted all the way as far as you possibly could and then some to the right."
"Uh-huh." I play dumb. Because I'm out of ideas and I can't argue with reality. Also because I'm a little bit alarmed at how perilously I'm teetering over the edge of the stage.
The danger makes it difficult to concentrate. "Me?" I ask, pointing at myself for second before I think better of it and return my hand to the edge of the chair in order to steady it.
"Yes, you. I specifically asked you to scoot closer to him." She points at Jake, who I’m refusing to look at. In fact, I’m trying really hard to not even think about him.
And despite my understanding fully what the photographer wants me to do, I have no intention of scooting toward, looking at, or associating in any way with the guy on the other end of the stage. So now I have to find a way to tell her that my answer to her request is a hard pass. "Oh, I'm sorry," I say while holding onto the chair and staring straight ahead.
A few torturous seconds pass. Her face, surprisingly, has a few more levels left of annoyance beyond what was there before. "Okay, can you scoot closer to him now?"
"No."
Her shoulders sag dramatically. “Dear, are you okay?”
Finally, an easy question. “No, ma’am. Not even remotely.” The question answered, I turn my attention back to balancing.
She turns her face the other way, toward him. "Okay, well how about you? Can you scoot a little to your left, closer to her? And by a little I mean at least four feet?"
"Nope," I hear the stupid,
