Authors: Jessica Miller
Jacob ran up to me and scooped me up into his arms and kissed me hard. His lips have never devoured me like they had in that moment, as if his mouth was claiming all of me and not just my lips. He twirled me around and squeezed me against him until I was gasping for breath, my lungs threatening to collapse against his tight hold. He let me drop to the ground, but refused to let go of me, his hands still gripping my hips as he stepped back to let me breath.
‘Sorry.”
I gasped and coughed.
“It’s ok.”
I smiled up at him, reaching my hand out to caress along his stubble covered cheek.
“I’m sorry I called you a monster.”
“I’m sorry I got there too late, if I had made it before he did…”
“Shh, it’s ok. I’m a big girl, I’ll get over it.”
Jacob smiled and let go of my hips, his hands moving to caress along my cheeks, his thumb running across my chin and lower lip.
“Come with me, I want to show you something. Men, you can go get some rest.”
“Yes Sir.”
Jacob laced his fingers in between mine and led me further down the dock, the men creating the wall with their bodies separated and all headed towards the ship. Once Jacob and I reached the end of the dock, he pulled me down to sit on the dock, our feet hanging over the edge, barely not touching the water. I wrapped an arm around his and interlaced both hands into one of his, rested my head on his shoulder and took a deep sigh.
“I know you probably have a lot of questions now, about me, about everything.”
“I do, but I don’t want to ask them tonight. I don’t think I could process anything else tonight, it’s been… a long night.”
Jacob nodded and leaned his head to the side, kissing the top of my head before resting his cheek on it.
“It has been, but I’m glad you came to the dock. You have no idea what a sense of relief it was to see you again.”
I squeezed his hand.
“Probably just as much as a relief it was to see you not dead.”
“You thought I was going to die?”
“The amount of blood, the fact the other officer died…I was scared.”
“Is it strange I find it comforting that you were scared for me, and not of me?”
“As strange as anything else tonight, I suppose.”
We both laughed and snuggled against each other tighter, we stared up into the sky at the glowing moon, enjoying each other’s warmth.
“The ocean looks so peaceful.”
“Yeah, you should see it further out, it’s peaceful all day and night, except for when the ships are speeding through.”
“Not a lot of ships disturb it around here.”
“No, but over on the other side of the coast, man there is a lot of action. Me and the boys will go days without seeing a calm water.”
I could hear the happiness in his voice while he spoke about the water and the action his team would see, and then reality came crashing down and I pulled my hands out from between his.
“What’s wrong?”
Jacob turned to me, his face looking just as concerned as when I discovered his tiger secret.
“You’re leaving.”
“Not forever.”
“But you’re leaving. You’ll always be leaving.”
I went to stand up but he gripped my hand and kept me from leaving the floor of the dock, holding both my hands and gazing into my eyes.
“I am never going to leave you. Not in mind, not in heart, not in soul.”
“But in body…”
‘We’ll figure that out. Maybe I can stay landed for a while.”
“Do you promise?”
“I promise we’ll figure it out, together.”
I nodded and sighed, curling up against his side and rested my head into the crook of his neck. We continued to stare out onto the calm, cool water, watching the small waves rocking against the dock and the night fish peeking up to snatch bits of food from the surface. I was still worrying about the days to come when it would be time for Jacob to go back out to sea, but in that moment, for that night, we had each other and everything seemed perfect.
THE END
Bonus Story 14 of 20
“A bush mallow, how nice. Where was this taken, Hector?” Professor Danteridge asks the photographer.
“In Santa Margarita, Professor,” Hector replies.
“Superb collection,” Professor Danteridge says. “Simple and elegant as always.”
Although I enjoyed the pictures of Hector’s flowers, the way each extreme close-up attempted to give the plant a face of its own, it is still nothing I haven’t seen before.
“And up next we have Vylette’s collection from last week,” Professor Danteridge continues.
My cheeks instantly prickle. I hate having my work exposed in class, especially when it was so hard for me to even find a topic. I wish I could skip the whole thing entirely, because frankly I feel like my collection is a waste of the other students’ time. I don’t have the opportunity to go to Santa Margarita, or anywhere else scenic for that matter, so I have to work with what is around me in Los Angeles.
I look away from the screen to avoid seeing my photos. I wonder if the guy next to me hears me groan. There are probably sixty other students in this crowded classroom, and I’ve barely ever spoken to any of them. USC is a huge campus, and even though there are so many creative people here, I can never get up the nerve to ask someone to collaborate. I know I should branch out and try to network or even do some kind of volunteer work, but it’s hard when I have to work all the time to pay for school.
The little room we’re in feels sterile—just another cookie cutter room with white walls, wobbly tables and chairs that leave streaks on the floors. This is not the place I envisioned myself blossoming as a photographer when I was working at Olive Garden in Detroit. I pictured developing photos from film in a dark room, and tasteful or historical architecture that inspired creativity. Instead, I moved across the country for a room with a generic PowerPoint projector.
The white screen flashes with a click from Professor Danteridge and the first photo of my collection illuminates all the faces in the classroom. My heart races, my gut drops. I can’t believe I actually went through with it. To my surprise, nobody says a word. I look around and their expressions—some of them have their lips curled in curiosity, others with a single eyebrow raised controlled surprise.
Professor Danteridge clears his throat before saying, “Well, Vylette, this is a very interesting…” I finally face the screen while he searches for a description. There it is, a photo of me, sitting on the ground naked, my arms curled around my knees and my face buried between them. In the photo I am sitting in profile to the camera, my body facing the left side of the frame. My sepia brown skin is now just another shade of gray—separate from the walls and the floor, darker than my short, copper hair. Professor Danteridge brings me back to the moment when he clears his throat again, finishing his description. “…Self-portrait?”
His eyes bounce over to me. I go still because I wasn’t expecting him to call on me. Yes, it was a picture of me, but no, I hadn’t thought of the collection as a self-portrait. I just couldn’t think of anything else and wanted to do something risqué. At the time I had pictured it coming out tasteful. What was I thinking?
“Well,” I mutter, looking over to the guy next to me like he could miraculously feed me something to say. “It’s not
exactly
a self-portrait. I know that I wanted to experiment with something black and white, and I am really interested in the human body.”
He looks at me, just as blank as before. When he clicks his mouse the next photo pops up. This time, I’m looking out the window. Using a 50mm lens, I was able to get a great image that distorted the focal points while creating an inverse mirror image of the other side of my face in the reflection of the glass.
“Tell me,” the Professor continues, “What exactly was your intent with the gray scale composition in this photo?”
“Uh oh,” the guy next to me whispers. He keeps his voice low so only I hear him. “Dr. D is trying to actually teach today.”
My mind goes blank. All I can do is reprimand myself for not taking the assignment more seriously. I get tense in my legs and my breathing speeds up. At once I bring back the weight—the guilt—of trying to live this dream; all the nights until 2 A.M. working at the bar to make enough for the small amount of expenses I have to pay that student loans won’t cover. Who am I kidding? Maybe I don’t belong here after all.
I sit up straight in my chair and buy myself a second by taking a sip of water. “I always thought black and white photographs are the most beautiful,” I say, feeling my jaw get jittery. “Still life. I capture what I see, and that has always been my dream.” As I look around, all the faces are turned toward me and, surprisingly, Dr. Danteridge’s blank expression has a new curvature of interest. “Some people call me old fashioned,” I continue. “But I can’t deny who I am, and if I’ve learned anything since moving to the city, it’s that the only thing I can trust is my heart.”
The guy next to me has a full-toothed grin shooting right my way. Finally, I get a good look at his face now that the adrenaline has passed. “Nice answer,” he says. Professor Danteridge responds to my rambling monologue, but I’m locked in my neighbor’s chestnut eyes. His rough lips are pursed loosely with a curled grin, his head cocked sideways and relaxed. In his eyes, I feel like he is somehow offering me a moment’s repose. His coffee complexion hypnotizes me, and then I see the scar running from his ear to his neck. He catches my eyes stuck on his scar and then covers it up with the hood of his sweater.
“Frankly, Ms. Edwards,” Professor Danteridge drones on, an obvious tone of irritation in his voice, “my suggestion to you for next week’s deadline is to abandon the selfie stick and adopt a frame of mind that considers the world in your work, not just your unimaginative brain that can’t think of anything better to put on camera than its own mediocre body. Class dismissed.” He closes his books up and places them back into a briefcase, withdrawing all eye contact from the students.
I let out a chortle at his remark before I can catch myself. Thankfully I’m not the only one who thought it was out of line. While some of the other students laugh casually at the remark as they exit the classroom, others scoff with me at Professor Danteridge’s insensitivity. I force myself to take my eyes away from the photo of a shirtless me looking out the window, but it glows in the darkness of the room like a humiliating monolith.
“Don’t take it too seriously,” a voice says. It’s the guy next to me. He already has his things packed up and is standing, ready to walk away. “This class is weak, and that teacher has no idea what he’s talking about. My collection was a bunch of pictures of trees and he said it was ‘lacking life’. I thought your photos were raw, and honest.”
From my chair, the only thing I can do is look up at him, mouth agape, and sputter out, “Uh. Thanks.”
He laughs and starts to walk away. In the sea of other students aiming for the exit, I lose sight of him for a moment. I shove my books into my bag and shuffle up after him. Why is it that for the life of me I cannot speak under pressure? That’s twice in 20 minutes that I’ve embarrassed myself by not knowing what to say.
I find him just as he’s turning to exit the Arts building. His hood is up and his walk is brisk, like he’s already running late to another class or appointment. At this rate I’d have to run to catch up to him, so my brain finally kicks in and I shout, “Hey! Do you have any suggestions? Like for what I should do for next week?”
For a moment I’m certain he didn’t hear me, and that I look crazy standing out in the middle of campus shouting to no one—then he stops, and even with his hood up and I see him turn his head back toward me. He’s waiting for me, and I nearly trip trying to catch up.
***
When I’m finally next to him he says, “I can’t tell you how to do you. But from what I can tell, you’re afraid.” He continues walking, barely paying me any mind. I realize that it’s not just me—but he’s also ignoring the world around him. We nearly walk into a busy intersection when I stop him.
“You’re going to get yourself killed,” I say. “Are you trying to teach me some kind of lesson here? Like walking out into traffic means you’re not afraid?”
At first his face is stone, and I feel that my joke didn’t land, but then he lets out a laugh that releases a hidden tension in my shoulders. “For one, all I’m saying is that you give off a vibe like you’re trapped inside yourself,” he says, pressing the button on the crosswalk. “And second, that wasn’t me trying to teach you a lesson. That was me not paying attention because you got me tripped up.”
The orange hand switches to the white walk sign and he drops off the curb onto the road to cross over. I’m not sure if there was an unspoken invitation for me to follow him, but then I stop caring. “How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I say loud enough for him to hear me, at least five pedestrians away. A stranger groans at me because I practically shouted into her ear. To avoid embarrassment, I run to catch up again.
“How do I give off a vibe like I’m trapped inside myself?” I repeat.
He laughs again and peers at me from inside his hood. The more steps we take, the further away we get from campus. I look back and realize that I’ve never walked this far down Jefferson. On my right is the old Jefferson Church, or
Iglesias de Jefferson
, with the black and white mural of a lion, a lamb, and Jesus wearing his crown of thorns and looking up to the sky. The church doesn’t look much like a church. It’s a small, cubed orange building that has the name of the church painted across the front in black. The font looks more like a high school student’s graffiti at first glance.
I stop just after the church. The guy is already in the intersection. He’s almost all the way across before he stops to look back at me. “I have to go home,” I say. “I don’t even know you. It’s getting late.”
He comes back to my side of the street and stands right in front of me. “You do know me. My name is Roman. You’re in my photography class. Your name is Vylette, and I’ve seen you naked.”
I go flush. Bumps rise up in waves through both my arms. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of my bus going the opposite direction.
Great
, I think.
Now I’ll have to wait an hour for the next one
.
“Look, you don’t have a ride,” he says. “Come with me. I don’t live far. We can work.”
It takes me watching him inhale and exhale twice before deciding that he’s actually serious. My first instinct is to reach for my cell phone, but the reason is to call Malik and say I’m not coming straight home. I don’t understand why I can’t escape feeling the need to check in with him, because the fact is that we aren’t together. But another fact is that I’m not paying rent, and I’ve been staying with Malik for damn near two whole years.
Roman’s gaze is fixed on me like he sees nothing else around us—not the church behind me, or the clear blue sky, or the vehicles coming and going through the intersection. “If you’re down,” he says. “Then say something. There are things I’d rather be doing than standing out in the street, do you feel me?”
My hand is sweaty around my phone, and when I release it from my grip I’m embarrassed to pull it out of my pocket. “I really shouldn’t, Roman,” I say, trying to divert my eyes and look preoccupied. “I have to get back to campus. I just missed my bus and I need to head home.”
He chews his lip, nods his head, and blinks when he looks to the ground. “I got you,” he says. “I’ll see you around, then.” He doesn’t walk away; he hovers, waiting for me to speak.
“Yeah, see you around,” I respond to his silence, and turn back toward campus. As much as I want to look back and see if he is still standing there, I fight every muscle in my body and keep my course.
***
The green bus drops me off downtown. It’s dark on the three-block walk from the stop to where I stay. I could have called Malik—he would have picked me up no doubt. It would only inflate his pride, picking me up in his new black Raven CT6. I can only imagine the attitude I’m about to get for walking home in the dark.
By the time I get to Malik’s building, the temperature has dropped about ten degrees. One thing about LA that drives me crazy is how hot it is one minute and cold the next. I take the elevator up, and Malik’s building is one of the old style artsy ones, so the elevator has an old fashioned lift. I hold my breath every time I ride up the ten stories.
The corridor is full of maroon doors, and I can’t help count them every time I pass until I get to Malik’s loft, 1017. The hallway is silent, but after I unlock the door and open it I hear the soft rhythm of a Miles track from Malik’s vinyl player. It is so Malik to set the tone and put on a calm front when he’s about to get real.
He is already waiting for me in the kitchen. “How was the bus?” he asks, scrubbing the ginger glaze from lasts night’s mahi mahi off the plates. In the two years that I’ve lived with him, he has not only prepared a home-cooked meal every night, but also cleans, works, and goes to the dojo two nights a week. Last week I was on the phone with my sister, Hope, and she had the nerve to call me a gold digger.