“You don’t know the meaning of the word.” Shane steps out from behind the counter and snatches the price gun from my hands. “You were meant to be my best man, fuck head. Best men don’t bail one month before a wedding and leave their friends to find a standin at such short notice. I had to ask Tina’s brother, man. That was such a dick move.”
“I know, I know. I’m sorry. That was three years ago, though, Shane. I thought you’d be over that by now.” I really did think that. I didn’t for a second think he would still be pissy over the fact that I got called away for work at the last minute before his wedding. Weddings are such non-events. I’m always surprised when guys seem to enjoy them. I always assume people bear them because social etiquette demands they must. It seems Shane isn’t of the same mind as me.
“It was the day I promised to love and protect my wife forever. How can you think I’m over it by now? I need at least another three years. And you should probably buy me a Tesla or some shit as well. That might help.”
“If buying you a Tesla will make you feel better, I’ll make it happen.”
“You can’t afford a Tesla, you son of a bitch. You get paid peanuts. You and I both know it.”
I do get paid peanuts. When Mom died, I’d been completely stunned by the fact that she’d left me a chunk of money. A very sizeable chunk of money. Without it, I’d never have been able to live the life I do now. A photographer’s wage is pretty pathetic, even when they’re at the very top of the food chain. Unless you’re David Bailey or Ansel Adams, you can pretty much forget about making six figures. Even high five figures is impressive.
“I’ll make it happen,” I say, grinning. “You know me.”
“Yeah. I do. That’s what I’m worried about.”
I cuff him on the shoulder, pulling a face. “Fuck you, man. Come on. Give me a hug. You know you want to.”
Shane can’t stay mad at me for long. Try though he might, once we’re face-to-face, he’s never managed more than five minutes, max. He groans, opening up his arms, giving me a tired eye roll as I step in and embrace him, clapping him on the back.
“You smell like turps, Shane.”
“You smell like women’s perfume. What d’you do? Take a bath in that shit?”
“It’s not women’s perfume. It’s very expensive, manly cologne. It says homme on the bottle and everything.”
“You wore that shit in high school and you’d have gotten the shit beaten out of you.”
Shane tries to pull away—I’m surprised he hasn’t already—but I hold onto him tight. “Have you forgiven me yet?”
“No. Get the fuck off me, man.”
“Not until you forgive me.”
He jabs me in the side. “And here I was thinking you were a male in his late twenties, and it turns out you’re a twelve-year-old girl after all. I’m feeling pretty foolish right now, Cross. You should be, too.”
“Say it. Say it and I’ll let you go.”
“Urgh, all right! I forgive you. I shouldn’t, but I do. Tina’s gonna kick you in the balls if she sees you in town, man. I hope you can still run fast, because she’s nowhere near as lenient as me.”
I let Shane go, slapping him on the back. “I know, I know. I still have a scar from when she threw that lava lamp at me back in freshman year.” Tina and Shane have been together for approximately forever. I can’t remember a time when they weren’t a couple. She was permanently mad at me all throughout high school for leading Shane astray. On one particular occasion, he got so high he started tripping out and she had to leave her orchestra recital to come and get him before his parents drove by and saw him passed out on the verge of Main Street with his jeans around his ankles. I’d helped her carry him inside his place and gotten him up the stairs to his bed, which is where she’d grabbed hold of the offending lava lamp and tossed it at my head. Missed, thank god, but the shattering glass had rained down on me and left a few marks that I still carry to this day.
Shane picks up a box beside the counter and jerks his head toward the back, motioning that I should follow him. As we make our way out back, I’m hit with a succession of memories—memories of long, sweaty, hot summers working here with Shane in order to make some extra money for new lenses and disposable cameras. The smell of the place drags me back in time, to days of getting up at five am and hauling lumber, days of getting home at eight to find my mother on the floor of the bathroom, no one there to help her up.
And countless days of Coralie.
Summer with Coralie was always so much magic and glory, and pain and fear.
“Have you seen her yet?” Shane asks, dropping the box with a thud at his feet. He points to a stack of fresh cut pine, and I take off my shirt, falling easily into our routine from so many years ago. Lift, measure, saw, stack. Over and over.
“Seen who?” I feign ignorance. I like to think I’m not that predictable. In New York, the women I fuck undoubtedly think I’m deliciously mysterious and strange, but sadly that’s not the case back in Port Royal and with Shane. Shane knows how to read me like he knows how to read the odds at any racetrack or betting hole. He’s a goddamn professional.