Raising his back from the wall, he looks right at me with the brightest smile and says with absolute determination, “You know what? I think you should display some of your photography in the event.”
A little surprised by his suggestion, I just sit here wide-eyed for a moment.
“You don’t have to sell any of it if you don’t want to,” he says, assuring me. “But even if you did, you could keep your profits—however you want to do it—but I just think it’d be awesome if your photography was on display like my paintings.”
I was shaking my head long before I realized I was; I just don’t feel very confident. The other photographs, not to mention Luke’s paintings, are way out of my league.
“I don’t know, Luke,” I say, still shaking my head slightly. “Did you see those other photographs over there?” I point absently in the direction of the black-and-white photographs of the old woman. “My stuff is nowhere near—”
“Your photography is fantastic, Sienna,” he cuts in and then says, “Hey, I’m up close and personal with those self-doubting demons—as artists we’re our own worst critics—but I’m telling you that your photography is some of the best I’ve ever seen around this place, and I’m not just saying that because I like you.”
My whole face is bright and warm.
“I don’t know …”
“Just think about it,” he says eagerly.
He stands up and reaches out for my hands, helping me to my feet.
“Maybe you could even … come back for the event,” he suggests in a gentle, smiling voice.
“Oh, is that why you offered?” I ask, grinning; he rubs my arms up and down underneath his warm hands. “Just to get me to come back here?”
He shrugs, his mouth lifting on one side.
“As much as I’d love for you to come back in August,” he admits, “I still think your photography is worthy of being on display—don’t tell me you have a fear of compliments, too.”
I laugh lightly.
He just smiles.
“No, I’m not afraid of compliments—I like them more than I’m willing to admit.” I glance downward, feeling weird about saying that out loud, trying to keep my smile to a minimum.
“Well, that’s a good thing,” he says, and I feel his fingers press gently around my biceps, “because that’s just not something I can go easy on you about.” He leans in and presses his lips against my forehead, and my heart leaps and does flips and I feel like I want to fall into his arms.
Luke pulls away slowly, letting his hands slide away from my arms with reluctance.
“But as far as that real fear of yours,” he says, “I’ve got plans for it.”
I’m not sure I like that subtle look of mischief playing in his eyes.
I swallow nervously.
“Plans for it?” I ask hesitantly, and I’m beginning to wonder why he’s so intent on helping me overcome my fear of heights. Not that it bothers me—I couldn’t be more grateful—but I still have to wonder where it’s coming from, why he’s so, dare I say it, exactly what I’ve needed in that regard.
“Yep.” He nods.
I don’t wonder for long—now I’m just worried about what he has in store. “What kind of plans?” I ask. Am I grimacing? I’m totally grimacing. I probably look petrified. Luke is unfazed.
He curls his fingers around mine and says, “You’ll see,” as he walks us out of the building.
Luke
I ask her to trust me and not ask questions about where I want to take her. It’s definitely going to be a surprise, but I’m not one hundred percent confident that it’ll be a welcome one—I’m leaning toward no, but it’s worth a shot. She’s been awesome at going headfirst into facing her fear of flying, sitting by the window and looking out, but I can see the change taking shape within her already, the unmistakable confidence, her unbending strength.
I wish I was as strong as her.
I wish I could face my own fear—accepting Landon’s death and moving on with my life.
But maybe I am finally beginning to find my way again. Since Sienna walked into my life, I’ve felt lately like … I can breathe again. When I’m around her, I forget about everything else: the news from China, the funeral, the nightmares, the denial … but mostly the pain.
“Well, at least tell me if I’m dressed for the … occasion,” she says with a fearful tenor in her voice—I come back into the moment, the backs of my eyes burning with tears, and I adjust my expression quickly so she doesn’t notice.
She looks down at her outfit: cute blue shorts, pink tee, and white and hot pink running shoes.
“What you’re wearing is fine,” I assure her.
She’s so nervous sitting beside me on the bus on our way to the airport, the way she wrings her hands together on her lap.
“Well, do I need anything?” she asks. “Like maybe a … parachute or something?”
I laugh because it was certainly a joke, told by a beautiful, timid girl who was definitely not smiling in the least bit when she said it.
“No,” I say, patting her bare leg and leaving my hand there. “But you’ve got your camera, right?”
Her face lights up and it makes my stomach feel like a warm ball of, I dunno, something mushy and feminine, and all I’m waiting for now is to see a burst of little hearts shoot from my ears. I shake it off, laughing quietly to myself.
“No,” she says, “but we can stop by your house and pick it up first, right?” She looks hopeful and doe-eyed—damn; what this girl is doing to me!