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’d placed the pier down and to the left in the image, leaving a great deal of negative space filling the frame—the darkened ocean, the dimming sky. I’d shown it to Nikki, and even though she prefers to photograph faces, she’d taken a similar shot.
Now my mind is stuck on the idea of negative space. On seeing what’s not revealed and making meaning out of it.
Jackson and I were both keeping secrets—our personal negative space. And I suppose that Wyatt is right about the negative space telling the story, because god knows there was a lot of story hidden in both our secrets. My father and Ethan. Megan. Ronnie.
Does that mean that negative space in relationships is about trust and secrets? And is there ever a time when there is no negative space to be found?
In a photograph, that would be crowded and horrible.
But in life?
In life, don’t we want the secrets revealed and the negative space filled?
I don’t know, and when the waitress arrives with another round of beer and a huge basket of cheese fries, I’m happy to abandon my philosophical moment.
The conversation turns to nothing in particular. The shows Nikki and Damien saw in Manhattan. Wyatt’s upcoming trip to Chicago. Soon enough, we have to call it a night. Damien has an early morning overseas call, and I’m ready to be alone.
“I need to hit the ladies’ room,” Nikki says. She looks at me. “Come with?”
It’s a totally transparent invitation, but I accept it nonetheless.
“I heard about the paternity action,” she says as soon as we are alone in the small bathroom. “You okay? You seem a little shell-shocked.”
“I guess Damien didn’t believe me when I said I already knew.” I grimace. “And I thought I was hiding it so well.”
A small smile touches her lips. “I just got a peek.” She reaches out to touch my arm. “Seriously, if you want to talk about it.”
I do, I realize. I really do.
“It’s just—I mean, the man has a daughter. He didn’t think maybe that would be important to mention?”
“Does it bother you? That he has a kid?”
“No,” I insist. “It’s the fact that he didn’t tell me when there were so many times that it would have fit right there into the conversation.”
“Believe me, I understand. I’m married to a man whose natural state is to keep secrets.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Nikki shrugs. “I won’t deny it drives me crazy. But I’m not in his head, you know. And especially before we were married, I think I wanted to know things to prove to myself that he and I were okay. But that doesn’t mean I had a right to those secrets. Not unless they affected me, too.”
“Oh, I think having a kid affects me.”
She lifts a shoulder. “Maybe it doesn’t. Or maybe he’s scared to tell you.”
I just shake my head, not sure what to say to any of that.
“Come on, Syl. You guys are amazing together, but that doesn’t change the fact that you pushed him out of your life five years ago. Maybe he’s afraid you’re going to do it again.”
“No.” The word is vehement and full of certainty. I look her straight in the eye. “No way. There’s nothing that would push me away.” Even this, I realize. It’s a bump. A fight. But in the end we’ll work our way past it. Won’t we?
“And he knows that?” she asks.