“Syl?” His voice is both gentle and wary, and I realize that I can keep very little from this man. “What’s wrong?”
I know I should tell him, but I can’t. He’s held on to his secret; I can hold mine for a little bit longer.
“Nothing. Hong Kong. I’m distracted.”
It’s clear he doesn’t believe me—smart man—but he doesn’t call me on it. “All right,” he says carefully. “I’ll be working on twenty-six. We can drive home later together.”
“I’ll use one of the company cars.”
“Not necessary. I have plenty to do.” He looks right at me, and I know that he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “I’ll drive you home. It’ll be nice to have time to talk.”
He goes to the elevator without waiting for me to reply. He pushes the call button. And he doesn’t once look back.
Shit.
I don’t even realize I’ve made a decision until I reach the elevator, too. It’s just arrived, and as he steps on, I do as well. And as soon as the doors close, I turn on him, letting all of the temper I’ve been holding in fly. “Goddamn you, Jackson Steele.” I feel hot and cold at the same time, and so full of fury I could burst. “You put on this big act. Tell me you don’t want to keep secrets. And yet when the opportunity is staring you right in the face, you don’t say a single goddamn word.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Ronnie!” I shout, shoving him in the chest and making him stumble back a step. “I’m talking about the fact that you have a daughter.”
He goes completely gray as every ounce of blood drains from his face. He reaches behind him as if he needs the solidity of the elevator wall to steady him.
I stand frozen, waiting for him to deny it. To tell me I have it wrong—so very wrong.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “How do you know?”
I lift my chin. “The paternity test. It’s public record, Jackson.”
“Public record? Only if someone’s looking. Who’d be—that son of a bitch.” He meets my eyes, his flashing with anger. And with hurt. “Damien.”
I say nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure the truth shows on my face.
“That fucking prick.”
I wince, realizing that whatever detente Damien and Jackson have reached, I’ve clearly just destroyed it.
He takes a single, wary step toward me. “Syl, we need to talk.” His voice is softer now, as if he has put the anger away in a box. For a tiny moment, I’m proud of him, because I have a feeling all he really wants to do is hit something.
I’m not, however, proud enough to go with him. Not now. Not when I need to be alone.
“No,” I say. “Maybe we do need to talk, but I can’t right now. I need to think.” I feel myself sagging with sudden, horrible exhaustion.
“Syl—” He is reaching out for me, and those damn tears are welling in my eyes again.
“No,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, but I am going to Santa Monica tonight.” I meet his eyes. “And, Jackson, I need you to not go with me.”
“Here’s to excellent students and negative spaces,” Wyatt says, lifting a beer in a toast.
We’re in Hard Tails, a relatively new bar on the Third Street Promenade just a few blocks down from my condo. Damien and Nikki are on one side of the booth, and Wyatt and I are on the other.
It’s odd not to be sitting by Jackson, but I try not to think about him. I’ve been trying not to think about him all evening.
So far, I’m not managing that task too well.
“So a good report card on these girls?” Damien asks.
“Oh, yes. A-pluses all around.”
“I’m so proud,” Nikki teases, then passes her camera to Damien so he can check out the photos she’s taken.
“These are great,” he says. “I especially like the one with the pier.”
“That one was Syl’s idea. But I think we both nailed it.”
Wyatt points a finger at both of us. “What did I tell you? Negative space.”
We don’t meet with Wyatt as regularly as I would like to, but he always has a theme for his lessons. Today’s was composition. Using negative space—or the empty part around the object—to tell part of the story.
My passion is taking pictures of architecture, and after taking a number of shots of buildings near the beach, I’d finally looked out toward the ocean, then realized what so many photographers have discovered—that the famous Santa Monica Pier is a great subject for a photo.
I know I should tell him, but I can’t. He’s held on to his secret; I can hold mine for a little bit longer.
“Nothing. Hong Kong. I’m distracted.”
It’s clear he doesn’t believe me—smart man—but he doesn’t call me on it. “All right,” he says carefully. “I’ll be working on twenty-six. We can drive home later together.”
“I’ll use one of the company cars.”
“Not necessary. I have plenty to do.” He looks right at me, and I know that he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying. “I’ll drive you home. It’ll be nice to have time to talk.”
He goes to the elevator without waiting for me to reply. He pushes the call button. And he doesn’t once look back.
Shit.
I don’t even realize I’ve made a decision until I reach the elevator, too. It’s just arrived, and as he steps on, I do as well. And as soon as the doors close, I turn on him, letting all of the temper I’ve been holding in fly. “Goddamn you, Jackson Steele.” I feel hot and cold at the same time, and so full of fury I could burst. “You put on this big act. Tell me you don’t want to keep secrets. And yet when the opportunity is staring you right in the face, you don’t say a single goddamn word.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Ronnie!” I shout, shoving him in the chest and making him stumble back a step. “I’m talking about the fact that you have a daughter.”
He goes completely gray as every ounce of blood drains from his face. He reaches behind him as if he needs the solidity of the elevator wall to steady him.
I stand frozen, waiting for him to deny it. To tell me I have it wrong—so very wrong.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he asks, “How do you know?”
I lift my chin. “The paternity test. It’s public record, Jackson.”
“Public record? Only if someone’s looking. Who’d be—that son of a bitch.” He meets my eyes, his flashing with anger. And with hurt. “Damien.”
I say nothing, but it doesn’t matter. I’m sure the truth shows on my face.
“That fucking prick.”
I wince, realizing that whatever detente Damien and Jackson have reached, I’ve clearly just destroyed it.
He takes a single, wary step toward me. “Syl, we need to talk.” His voice is softer now, as if he has put the anger away in a box. For a tiny moment, I’m proud of him, because I have a feeling all he really wants to do is hit something.
I’m not, however, proud enough to go with him. Not now. Not when I need to be alone.
“No,” I say. “Maybe we do need to talk, but I can’t right now. I need to think.” I feel myself sagging with sudden, horrible exhaustion.
“Syl—” He is reaching out for me, and those damn tears are welling in my eyes again.
“No,” I repeat. “I’m sorry, but I am going to Santa Monica tonight.” I meet his eyes. “And, Jackson, I need you to not go with me.”
“Here’s to excellent students and negative spaces,” Wyatt says, lifting a beer in a toast.
We’re in Hard Tails, a relatively new bar on the Third Street Promenade just a few blocks down from my condo. Damien and Nikki are on one side of the booth, and Wyatt and I are on the other.
It’s odd not to be sitting by Jackson, but I try not to think about him. I’ve been trying not to think about him all evening.
So far, I’m not managing that task too well.
“So a good report card on these girls?” Damien asks.
“Oh, yes. A-pluses all around.”
“I’m so proud,” Nikki teases, then passes her camera to Damien so he can check out the photos she’s taken.
“These are great,” he says. “I especially like the one with the pier.”
“That one was Syl’s idea. But I think we both nailed it.”
Wyatt points a finger at both of us. “What did I tell you? Negative space.”
We don’t meet with Wyatt as regularly as I would like to, but he always has a theme for his lessons. Today’s was composition. Using negative space—or the empty part around the object—to tell part of the story.
My passion is taking pictures of architecture, and after taking a number of shots of buildings near the beach, I’d finally looked out toward the ocean, then realized what so many photographers have discovered—that the famous Santa Monica Pier is a great subject for a photo.
