“I’ve done both.” She looks into my eyes when she delivers the answer and doesn’t waver in her resolve. There are so many things I want to say to her, but I want her to finish her explanations first before I give her my two cents. “I went to Dartmouth and focused on Middle Eastern studies… learned Dari as something to make me more valuable in the job sector, but then in my final year I picked up a friend’s camera and fell in love with what life looked like through the lens. Shit started happening over here, and while my job with the local newspaper covering human interest stories was okay, it didn’t call to me like this did. I applied everywhere.” She shrugs as she sinks down and sits on the edge of my bed, eyes now concentrating on the nervous fidgeting of her fingers. “You know how it goes, though. Hundreds of applicants for a job that no one is giving up anytime soon. So I took matters into my own hands and started traveling and reporting freelance to try and build up a portfolio worthy enough to get me a job… and here I am.”
She looks up and her eyes find mine. I want to believe her and what I think I see in the emerald of them but am so damn leery of everyone that I can’t help but hold that close even now. Besides, for someone who wasn’t giving me any information before, her data dump of facts seems a little too convenient. Add to that she still hasn’t answered all of my questions.
I nod my head subtly as I digest her words, figuring out if I believe them wholeheartedly or not as her eyes flicker over my shoulder again, because certain things just don’t jive.
“I want to see your phone.” I hold my hand out as confusion flickers across her face, followed by her shaking her head from side to side as she tries to comprehend why I’m asking.
“Why?” She crosses her arms over her chest and lifts her chin in obstinacy.
“Because I want to see who you’re sharing information with.” I make the comment knowing full well I’d tell someone to go to hell if they asked the same of me. “Prove to me right now that you weren’t in the back of the cab texting someone the information.”
“Over my dead body. Who I text is none of your damn business,” she says, her tone even with each word.
“I beg to differ.”
“Differ all you want. This is a job, not a strip search, so if you have a problem with how I do it, talk to my boss.”
“Strip search? And I thought we were leaving sexual harassment off the table.” I can’t help the sarcastic comment. I’ll push her buttons all goddamn day if it ends up getting me the truth. “If you’re not texting anyone, then it shouldn’t be a problem to show me, right?” I step toward her, and she moves to put her hand on her back pocket where her phone is resting.
Fuck yes, I’m having an asshole moment here, but I hate that gut instinct that tells me there is something more to her explanation. It’s the same instinct I’ve used to make a career out of getting the story no one else can get.
The worst part is, though, whereas I’d expect someone to shout at the top of their lungs how crazy I am at the accusation, she just keeps her voice soft, unbelieving. I want fiery denials and someone who fights against me to prove that they’re lying to keep their cover. But she’s doing nothing of the sort, and it’s what I expected.
And I might live my life by the unexpected, but this time, I’m not too happy about it.
Beaux falls silent and just shakes her head. “Obviously you have trust issues. I’m not the one who screwed you over, and I refuse to stand here and have the shit verbally beaten out of me for whoever it was. You want another photographer? Call Rafe. You want to know why I took a picture of Omid? See for yourself.” She reaches for her camera and opens a little door on the side of it. She messes with something momentarily as I try to figure out what she’s doing.
When Beaux finishes, she looks me in the eye as she extends the memory card out to me. I refuse to take it, even though I’m curious because now I suddenly have a feeling that I’m going to end up being the royal prick when all is said and done. When I just hold her gaze, she purses her lips and gives a resigned sigh before walking back to the nightstand. She sets the card down and heads to the door, but stops before stepping through it.
“I quit.” She announces the words in a quiet whisper, but they reach across the distance and hit me like a sucker punch as she leaves.
So I stare at the closed door for a few moments, completely at a loss for words over how the day turned us from partners to fighting to this, completely disassociated. All things considered, I should be happy; I just got what I wanted. The temptress who played me for the fool is now gone, and I can continue as a one-man jack-of-all-trades.
So why do I not feel victorious? Why do I keep glancing at the memory card, wondering what it is she wants me to see?