Chapter 8 Cole

"Please sit still, you're fidgeting worse than a two-year-old."

I stare into the eyes of my makeup artist Mindy, a good friend of Billy Tucker-Strong's. It's all I can do to keep from obsessing about yesterday—and what I did to poor Noah.

Did I really kiss him?

Did I really just confess my feelings, too?

What in the hell kind of melodrama land do I think we live in?

"You're still fidgeting."

"Sorry," I mutter, out of breath. "I'm … not used to this whole makeup thing, I guess."

"No one is. It's unnatural and smells bad. Just sit still."

"Yes, ma'am," I say, attempting to relax.

The next second, I'm worked up again. "Why did I have to go and do that to him?"

Mindy sighs. She couldn't care less. "Do what to who?"

"I mean, he said he wanted a guy who takes the lead, right?"

"Sure, I dunno."

"He was giving me all the signs. All day. I thought he itched for it as much as I did. Was I wrong? Did I misread?"

"Cole …"

"Sorry."

I take a breath. The lights from the makeup counter make me feel like I'm sitting in an oven. Why does there have to be thirty thousand of them? Not to mention all the scalding lights set up for the shoot itself. I already have back sweat. Do all models have to suffer like this? Apparently the real bane of any model's job isn't nerves, critics, or calories. It's fucking light bulbs.

And then I go off again. "Couldn't he have said something in response, at the very least? How could he leave me hanging after I showed the very confidence he said he wanted so badly? Instead … he just … took off … left me there like an idiot with my dog."

"You have a dog?" asks Mindy.

"I couldn't sleep a wink last night, not a wink."

"I wanted a dog," she murmurs morosely. "Joel says since his childhood dog passed, he refuses to get another …"

"I'm actually a good guy, too. I wasn't trying to scare him off. I think I'm exactly the kind of guy he's looking for."

"… something about not wanting to ‘replace' his dog …"

"Or at least I hope I am. I would never dream of harming him. All these years, I wanted to protect him. To make him feel safe. To just … keep him company." I grimace. "Now I think I might have ruined it all for good. He might never talk to me again."

Mindy pulls something out of the makeup kit on the counter. "You're going to want to close your mouth now. Powder time."

I'm about to say something else, but the powder puff silences me at once as Mindy pats it all over my face, setting the makeup.

I close my eyes, too, which leaves me with just my thoughts—and an image of the last look Noah gave me before he ran away. What were his exact words? "I need to go home and organize my books," I think they were. But he might as well have said, "I need to go home and masturbate my books," for as dazed as I was after that kiss.

And boy, was it ever a kiss. I felt everything the second I put my lips on his. The years of wanting to be his companion. All of that time spent pining and wondering and feeling curious.

The glances across cafeterias.

The dreams when I was alone in my bed at night.

I felt electricity in my veins while our lips were connected. It was unlike anything I have ever felt in my life. It might be a small amount of guys I've kissed in my life, but I already know that the kiss Noah and I shared cannot be rivaled by any one of them.

I was fucking done for.

Then the kiss ended.

I barely pulled away, just enough to get a good look into his eyes—and for one fleeting second, I saw bliss on Noah's face.

Happiness.

Dreams floating like stars in the night sky, right in front of his closed eyes and his adorably flushed cheeks.

Then his eyes opened.

Reality hit him.

He said his mystery words in a perfect monotone—whatever they were—then took off. I was left standing there with the leash hanging slack in my grip, in a silent panic, feet planted to the hard pavement, terrified of what I had just done.

My kissing crime.

I barely slept last night. I kept replaying in my head our whole conversation—or whatever I remembered of it—that led up to the kiss. The words change every time I think about it. Of course, Nan was having a snore-heavy night, so all I could hear through the walls all night was the deep rumble of her impressively potent nostrils. Also, a loose part of the flowery trellis outside my window kept tapping on the glass due to the wind, annoying me. There was no hope for catching z's last night.

I hope I see him soon. I will apologize immediately, beg him to pretend it didn't happen, and assure him it won't happen again.

Then try everything in my power to not break that promise.

It's a mere handful of minutes later that I'm placed in front of a tall, wide green screen. This is a musty room we're all gathered in that used to be a barn, repurposed into a generalized art and photography workshop—or so said Nadine an hour ago, I wasn't quite listening. There are only a handful of people here: a few working on the lighting, a couple by the makeup counter, and some more at a table set out with bottled waters, coffee, and juice.

Noah is nowhere to be found.

"Dean," says a handsome older gentleman standing next to me with warm brown eyes, shaved head, and a smooth chestnut complexion. He has been similarly done up in makeup, dressed in a pair of designer jeans and a crisp dress shirt with the sleeves stylishly folded up. He has joined me by the big green screen to introduce himself. "I don't believe we've quite met."

"Hello there, Dean," I say as it clicks. "You're one of the other bachelors, right?"

"That, I am." Dean reveals a pair of deeply-defined dimples when he smiles, and his eyes twinkle with charm. It's no wonder Nadine chose him as one of the bachelors. He'll make the women in town swoon—and likely some men, too. "Are there just three of us? Four? I've heard conflicting things."

"Three, I believe."

"Ah, three. Yes, nice number, nice round number, three."

"Indeed! Have I run into you at the grocery store?" I ask, finding his face familiar. "Or have I seen you at church?"

"Quite likely both. I do regularly frequent them. Though you may know me better through my nephew Tyrone. Do you know him? He used to be with the police department." He reconsiders as he looks me over. "Mmm, perhaps you're too young."

"Do you mean Tyrone King?"

His face lights up. "Yes! The one and only. He's a wonderful man, Tyrone, if not a bit of a recluse with his family out in the middle of nowhere where he lives. Dean King, that's my full name, in case you wondered, I am a King. Are you as nervous as I am, by the way?" he asks suddenly with a charming laugh. "I have never done anything quite like this. Back in my day, I did participate in a talent show, but that's as close as I've come, and I did not win. But despite my trepidation, Nadine was … well, she was convincing, I suppose you could say, quite convincing."

I can imagine the two of them in a calamitous arm wrestling match with a manic, sleeves-rolled-up Nadine bending his arm in half and causing him to explode into tears of anguish, eventually surrendering to her request to be a part of this.

"Well, when she sets her mind on something …" I start.

Dean lets out a throaty chuckle. "You can say that again!" He nudges me playfully. "So what kind of young, lovely lady do you hope will turn up for you? You're quite a handsome young stud!"

I hear Nan's voice in my head all over again—He's gayer than a sack of Blow Pops! Thankfully, she's not here, so I smile and politely respond, "Honestly, I'm just doing this to help out Nadine. I'm not hoping to get anyone out of it."

"Don't sell yourself short. Just in our brief time chatting, I can tell you're a fine young man. If my granddaughter didn't already have a fellow in her life, I think you'd be quite fitting for her."

I'll take that as a compliment. "Thank you, sir."

"No, no—Dean, please, call me Dean. I already feel like a fossil standing next to you. No need to overdo with any ‘sirs'. Oh, I never got your name."

"Cole." I shake his hand. "Cole Harding."

"Dean King. Oh, I've already done that part, haven't I?"

A door opens across the room, blinding sunlight shining in for a moment. I see Nadine entering with a man, and the pair of them appear deep in discussion. She says something and laughs, and the man appears to react stiffly, clearly not a person of humor. Is that Burton's father, by chance?

My curiosity ends when I see a third person trail in behind them just before the door shuts:

Noah.

Oh, wow. He looks so cute today in a baby blue shirt paired with khaki shorts. His hair is messy as usual. His camera is slung over his neck by a thick strap. His head hangs in that shy "please don't look at me" kind of way as he walks. He carries a tripod tucked under one arm and a purple notebook in his hand. I bet he checked ten times before leaving his house that it was the correct notebook today.

Noah's eyes flick up from the ground, spotting me.

I waste no time. I smile at him and give him a wave.

He looks away.

I drop my hand, deflating.

"And where's our third leading man?" asks Nadine to no one specific, spinning around on her heels as she approaches me and Dean. "Is he here? Why don't I see him? Did he die?"

"Running late," says Mindy (tiredly) from the makeup station, her feet propped up on another chair, bored.

"Late? Really? We scheduled this at noon so no one would—"

"Are you forgetting who it is?" asks Mindy. Nadine's eyes turn as sharp as needles. "Sorry, I'm just saying. Maybe better to curb your expectations a bit."

Nadine instantly puts on her happy face again. "We can wait. Hi, Dean! Hi, Cole!" she greets us cheerily. "Aren't y'all melting in those lights? You look stiff as carrots! Come over here and relax. Our third bachelor still has to show up and get into makeup, so it'll be a bit. We have drinks for you guys over here, y'know."

"Who is the third fellow?" Dean quietly asks me. I answer with a distracted shrug, my eyes still following Noah as he heads over to a pile of props and equipment, appearing to be sorting things.

I wonder if I should be bold and go right on over to him to see how he's doing and apologize for yesterday.

But what am I apologizing for?

Being too bold?

Being too confident?

Giving him exactly what I thought he wanted?

I keep feeling like a desperate creep who wants to suffocate Noah with my affection until he either likes me or dies.

There must be something wrong with me.

Dean heads over to help himself to some water, where he then quickly gets wrapped up in conversation with a cheery Nadine. I start to head to the drink table myself, but come to a stop as my eyes linger on Noah a while longer, watching as he quietly fusses with equipment stacked near the wall all by himself.

Go over and say hi?

Leave him alone?

Screw it. I head over to Noah and come to a stop by his side. He's quietly flipping through his notebook, studying whatever he has written there. I don't know if he notices me yet, but he hasn't budged. Maybe he's too deep in his thoughts. If I say something, I might startle him. But if I say nothing, I'm just standing here. Can I just give a gentle apology? Or should I start with a clever remark about his notebook? I could just ask how he's doing, or—

"Are you wearing cologne?" he asks softly.

My eyebrows shoot up. "Cologne?"

"My camera is fairly advanced," he admits, "but I'm afraid it isn't yet capable of picking up scent."

I am left stunned, lips parted.

Is Noah proving yet again that he has a sense of humor?

My heart races with relief. This is the rope he's throwing me, I'm sure of it. "It's probably just my deodorant or something. I, uh, severely underestimated how hot these lights would be. Or that lighting would be my nemesis at all. Thought it'd be my nerves, if I'm being honest here."

Noah doesn't respond or react, continuing to search through his notebook, finger gliding slowly down each page.

I take a breath. Here goes. "Noah, I'm really sorry if I made you uncomfortable yesterday."

He was about to turn another page in his notebook, but my words stop him.

"I thought I was getting signals from you. But … I think I was clearly misreading them."

Noah looks up at me from his notebook.

"I'm very sorry," I go on. "You're the last person I would want to make uncomfortable or take advantage of. I shouldn't have …" I peer back at the drink table where Nadine and my fellow bachelor chat, now joined by the man I presume to be Burton's father, standing there with a cup of coffee. They don't seem to be hearing any of this, so I feel safe to open up more to Noah. "I … shouldn't have kissed you like that yesterday. It was presumptuous of me. It was wrong. I'm sorry."

Noah pushes his glasses up at the bridge of his nose, his little eyes still on me, listening.

"So I guess what I'm trying to say," I finish, "is … please feel free to just … pretend none of it happened. I can do the same. You certainly have enough on your plate. I don't want to add any more burden. I just—"

Noah brings his hand toward me.

I freeze.

He brushes something off of my shirt.

I stare into his eyes the entire time, completely and utterly trapped by his sudden desire to touch me. My heart races. My lips part, taken by the gentleness of his fingers. My nerves prickle with excitement that I have no right to enjoy this much.

He pulls his hand back. "Lint," he mumbles.

I come out of my trance. "What?"

"On your chest. Lint. It's … It's gone now."

I stare at him, at a loss.

It is nearly impossible to maintain my composure now after he just touched me, even if only for the purpose of picking lint off of my shirt. Was that the purpose? Or did he want to touch me?

Is this another signal?

Or am I, yet again, reading way too much into it?

"Uh, thank you," I say, eyes wide open and unblinking.

"The camera picks up everything," he explains. "Even a bit of lint will show up. It's important to check the details."

I'm trying not to lose my mind here.

But really, is he going to respond at all to anything I just said about the kiss yesterday?

Does he have any idea how badly I want there to be another piece of lint on me, just so he has a reason to touch me again?

"That's … true," I make myself say. "The camera doesn't hide a thing." Literally, I'm begging for there to be another piece of lint on me somewhere. Or perhaps a makeup smudge. "So … about the kiss yesterday …"

"I'm also sorry for running off," he mumbles, gazing down at the floor. I perk up with anticipation—until he finishes: "It was my own fault for bringing the wrong notebook and for being totally unprepared. Not to mention my nearly-dead phone. I guess a real professional wouldn't have let any of that happen."

I'm literally holding my breath here.

Is he completely dodging the subject?

"Also …" he says, then lifts his eyes to mine with hope.

I stare back with as much hope, desperate for him to tell me it was okay to kiss him, that it was welcomed, that all of the signs I was seeing were true, that he wants this as badly as I do.

Just then, the side door explodes open. Sunlight fills the space like fire, eclipsed crudely by the silhouette of a person staggering inside. When the door shuts at his back, a young man comes into focus. Grease-stained t-shirt. Tattered dusty jeans and boots with clumps of dried mud stuck to them. He approaches, then stops, sways slightly, runs a hand through his sweaty, messy blond hair, then squints at everyone as if the room is full of fog. "We gettin' this thing started or what?" he barks out. "I'm ready to get me a sexy lady. Or a sugar mama. Or both. Sorry for bein' late. Fuckin' alarm clocks, am I right?"

I stare at him, baffled.

Noah, too.

In fact, his entrance has stopped all conversation in the room.

Nadine, after reading said room and deciding she doesn't like what she's reading, is the first to speak. "Mr. Anthony Myers, doll face, how are you doin'? Yes, over here by the drinks, that's where my voice is comin' from. Hey, sweetheart, come on over here. We need to get you dressed up and in makeup, pronto!"

"Huh? Makeup?" Anthony lets out an unpleasant snort. "Nah, I'm good, fine the way I am, the way God made me, fine enough for the lovely ladies. Could use a new shirt, though. This one's messed up from the worksite yesterday."

Mindy lets out a sigh from the makeup station and continues scrolling on her phone, bored.

Nadine's tone is as sweet as if trying to persuade a fussy child to eat his vegetables. "Anthony, sweetheart, this is a photo shoot, a professional photo shoot. It's going to be in the paper. People … People are gonna actually see it. We need to get some foundation on that face of yours, at the very least."

"Foundation? You wanna … You wanna talk foundation? You should check out the bitch of a foundation we just laid for the new big-ass wing of the Spur Inn. Damned huge, that's what it is, shit." He ambles over to the drink station, cutting right between Nadine and Burton's father to help himself to a bottle, which he promptly twists open. "Fuckin' thirsty as hell. Is anyone else balls-hot in here or is it just me?"

"Anthony," says Nadine, nearly pleading.

He downs the water, wipes his mouth with the full length of his arm, then spots the makeup area. "Hey, Mindy. Got somethin' for me to change into?"

Mindy shoots Nadine a tired look of her own before she says, "Yep. Over here, Anthony."

When he passes Nadine, she scrunches up her eyes and brings the back of her hand to her nose, shielding a foul odor. "Alright then, that's that," she mutters, attempting to wrangle everyone's attention well away from bad thoughts. "While he's gettin' spruced up, how ‘bout we go over some details and figure out what in the heck we want to accomplish today?"

Noah leaves my side and heads over to the others, notebook in hand. I watch him go for a moment, mourning the abrupt death of our conversation, feeling like there's a hole in my chest.

This isn't over, I insist to myself—and him—before heading over to join the others as well, ready to do whatever it is I need to do.

I figure that if we all manage to stay focused, this whole thing could be over within an hour tops. Then we can get on with our days—and I can finally have some time for a deeper and more meaningful dialogue with Noah.

As fate would have it, I couldn't have been more wrong.

"Can you put your hand on Cole's left shoulder? Your other left." It's Nadine who takes the role of director, positioning us just where she wants us while Noah goes to town clicking away on his camera. I keep trying to catch Noah's gaze, but the lighting is too bright, and it's no use when I keep being directed where to look. "No, no, Cole's shoulder, not Dean's. Can you come up—yes, right there—come up closer to the front, dear." Everyone else watches from a distance, someone now and then stepping in to make an adjustment to the lighting. Noah won't look at me. This is torture. "Give me a smile. Not so big. A more natural one, less serial killery. Yes, better." Mindy is on standby with her kit for any emergency touchups. She keeps turning away and stifling her yawns. "Can you two trade places now? Dean's the tallest, but I don't want him to look like y'all's daddy, if you get me. Look at the camera, please. Try the shot again. Turn your face. Other way."

I greatly misjudged the amount of poses and ideas Nadine can come up with. The woman's barrel is bottomless. It's only been an hour and a half, but it feels like it ought to be midnight by now. This huge warehouse of a building has no windows, so there's no telling the actual time.

And then this happens: "Hey, what if I do this?" asks Anthony, taking a step ahead of us and crouching down, framing his face with a hand and puckering his lips. "Or this?" He does yet another cringe-inducing face. "Get a shot of this. I can do these all day." He straightens up and strikes a pose in front of us, lifting his chin. "We should throw in some swagger here and there, y'know, for the ladies. Wouldn't kill us to look a bit more badass."

Dean wrinkles his face, lowers his voice, and mumbles to me, "And wouldn't have killed him to take a shower."

Unfortunately, Anthony hears, too. "What'd you say?"

Dean faces off with him. "How about we listen to and respect Nadine's direction? She's the one here with all of the vision and expertise. Not you."

Anthony is itching for a fight. "You think I smell bad?"

"I think we all do," I throw in to try and diffuse the tension. "I am a sweaty mess under these lights. How about you guys?"

Anthony gives me a look, sizes me up from head to toe, then faces Dean again. "Don't talk down to me, old man."

"All I said was to listen to the woman in charge," states Dean, unaffected by Anthony. "Nadine's done plenty fine so far, and—"

"You've been lookin' down your nose at me since I got here, old man. Is there somethin' about me that bothers you, old man?"

"You're being childish and wasting everyone's time."

"C'mon, now," Nadine calls out with a clap of her hands. "Let's stop the bickerin' and get back to … to camera-flickerin'." She appears amused by her own rhyme. "Anthony, take a step to—"

"We ain't done," clips Anthony, his face in Dean's.

Nadine claps her hands again. "Hey, I've raised two boys of my own and a dozen others by extension, Mr. Myers. I don't want to get snippy, but I will. In this building, we respect one another."

Anthony spins to face her. "But he was the one who—"

"Respect," she repeats.

He stares at her, eyes half-lidded, fuming underneath. Then he faces Dean indignantly, ready to say something else. Finally, he shakes his head. "Y'know what? Screw this." He marches off of the set and heads for the door.

"Anthony!" calls out Nadine, but he's already shoved his way outside, gone. After a moment, she lets out a tiny sigh, shakes her head, then throws her hands. "Oh, well. Y'know what? I think we got enough." Her voice turns cheery. "What do you think, Noah? Do we have some winners in that camera of yours?"

I gaze at Noah.

His eyes catch mine.

For a moment, we're connected. Perfectly. As if we can read each other's thoughts somehow, completely in sync.

Then he snaps out of it and nods silently at Nadine.

Nadine lets out a breath. "Great, that's good news. Dean, my dear friend, I'm sorry about that boy. He's … We'll just … I'll talk to him." She claps her hands together once again. "How about we call that a wrap? Call it a day? I'll take us all out for a tasty lunch. Or is it dinnertime yet? A tasty dinner on me. How's that sound?"

I haven't stopped staring at Noah, clutching his camera and appearing strangely aloof, lost in his thoughts. Then he peers at me once again, seeming to come out of it. I offer him a smile.

He looks away.

I suck on my tongue with mounting frustration.

"Don't know about anyone else," says Dean, at once dropping his polite demeanor like a hot potato, "but I sure as shit could eat a whole goddamned cow right now."