16
The clock haunts me with its tick, tick, ticking.I’m pacing a hole in my carpet, and I’m filled with a very unfamiliar feeling.It makes my stomach knot, my heart race, my hands sweat, and my breaths falter.What is this awful feeling?
I stop in my tracks.Oh my God, am I…jealous?
Is this what jealousy feels like?
Placing my hand on my heart, I try to take a steady breath to calm the frantic rate at which it’s beating, but every time I picture Tristan on a date it starts back up again.Why am I so affected by this?It’s not like we’re a couple.
He’s my dead husband’s best friend.Okay, he’s more than that.He’smyfriend.In fact, he’s become my best friend over this last year.And it’s suddenly obvious to me how much that friendship means to me.If he starts dating, then what does that mean for our friendship?
I’m not naive enough to think a woman would be okay with her man being best friends with another woman.That rarely works out.Besides, if I feel this jealous already, how am I going to feel when he’s in an actual relationship?
I need to sit down.
I sit on the couch, placing my elbows on my knees and spearing my fingers in my hair.My gaze lands on the dozens of photos I had developed—photos of people walking down the street, couples at the beach, the back of a little boy as he runs with his dog at the park.
I blame these photos for my current state.If I hadn’t taken these pictures and then decided to work on a collage and put them on display, then I wouldn’t have even needed to look for the damn screwdriver, and I wouldn’t have called Tristan and then I wouldn’t have known he was on a date and I wouldn’t be freaking the fuck out like I am.
But that’s not fair either.I needed this.Photography has always been a huge piece of my identity.I needed to find myself again in the thing I love doing the most.And honestly, Tristan’s probably been going out on dates this whole time, and I was just blissfully unaware of it.It’s not like we’re together twenty-four seven.And he’s a hot, single guy.Why wouldn’t he date?
And why does that thought deflate me so much?
My doorbell startles me out of my spiraling thoughts and I get up, glancing out the side window to see Tristan, his hair disheveled like he’s been running his hands through it and his blue button-down undone at the top with the sleeves rolled up his taut forearms and his tattoos partially on display.
My stomach clenches and another unfamiliar feeling hits me—one I haven’t felt in well over a year.A tingle accompanies a sharp ache between my thighs, and it’s so surprising I have to lean my head against the door and take a breath.
What the hell is going on with me?
Ignoring my body’s strange response, I open the door to Tristan.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply, leaning against the partially open door.“Wanna come in?”I offer as I open the door wider, so he can fit through.
He nods and steps inside, his gaze flitting around the room before settling on me.“Did you find it?”
Huh?He can’t possibly be talking about my sanity although I’m sure that’s the one thing that’s really gone missing tonight.
When I continue to stare at him blankly, he adds, “The screwdriver.”
“Oh!Uh, no, I haven’t.”I don’t tell him I completely forgot to even bother looking after I got off the phone with him because I was so worked up over the idea of him being on a date.
“Okay.I’ll go take a look in the garage.I was thinking about it on my way over here, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly where it is.Be right back.”
He walks out of the room, and it’s like my body has a mind of its own because my eyes watch him walk out, admiring the way his ass fills those dressy jeans he’s wearing.That tingle returns—although I’m not entirely positive it ever left—and brings a heat with it that nearly knocks me over.I need to pull myself together.
I busy myself with sorting more of the photos I had printed, deciding which ones I want to display and which ones I want to keep for my portfolio.I have a digital portfolio, but there’s something about holding a photograph in your hand that’s been lost in this day and age of taking pictures with a cell phone.I love delicately picking up the rectangular print, careful only to touch the edges so as not to get fingerprints all over the image.Feeling the lightweight paper in my hand while I examine the story being told.Holding an actual printed photo makes me feel so much more connected to my photographs than looking at them on a screen.There’s also a sense of possibility holding a tangible product.I’m staring at a picture I took three days ago, and it’s the first time in over a year I’ve actually felt like myself.
“Found it,” Tristan’s voice reverberates around the room as he enters from the kitchen.He walks into the room, but then stops at the threshold that connects the kitchen with the living room.He stands there, one hand holding the screwdriver and the other squeezing the back of his neck.I wonder if he knows how that movement enhances the veins in his forearms and makes them look even more fit than they already are.
“Great, thanks.”
His eyes lock on my photos.“Are these new?”he asks, interest clear in his tone.
“Yeah.”
His gaze meets mine, and there’s a sparkle of happiness there that makes my breath catch.“You’re taking pictures again.”