“All this time, and that’s what shuts you up? Gah! I could have won so many debates in class just by flummoxing you with the novel approach of limiting the amount of TV kids watch,” Nico teases. I look up at him with pursed lips, my eyes narrowed and my mouth twisted.
“Kidding,” he chuckles.
“Sorta,” he adds after a few seconds.
I pick up a dish towel near me and throw it at his head. He catches it swiftly and throws it back, and we both freeze with our eyes on one another. I want to look away, but I force myself not to. The pep talk happening inside my head is comical, but it works, and I end up seeing his gaze through. He doesn’t break either, but his cheek dimples, and his lashes sweep in slow blinks—his expression that of a guy who’s become strangely comfortable looking at me.
“I try not to let her be a couch potato is all. We have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, and when it’s light out, I like to try to encourage them to go out and play. The boys all want to play video games, but that’s okay because Alyssa doesn’t want to play with them anyways. She’s into dolls and hopscotch and…you know…girl stuff, I guess,” he says, leaning forward and pulling the towel across the counter, rubbing it in large circles and eventually draping it over the edge of the sink.
“My dad didn’t really like us watching TV either,” I say. My words must intrigue him, because he pulls himself up to sit on the counter across from me, and his head shifts to the side.
“Did he give you guys limits?” Nico asks.
“Not…really. But if he got irritated with us, or just, like…thought we had watched enough for the day, he would walk by and unplug it,” I say. Nico laughs instantly at the image I conjure, and as I think back on the scenes from our childhood, I begin to laugh, too. “Yeah, I guess subtle was never really part of Chad Prescott’s tool kit.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Nico chuckles, his laughter filling the space between us for a few seconds until it subsides, and once again we’re left with our eyes meeting, and my brain searching for words and courage to let him look at me like this for just a little while longer.
“I…uh…I was wondering if I could interview you?” I finally interject, breaking the silence and killing the smile that was on Nico’s face for so long. His brow wrinkles. “For my film? That’s…that’s why I came.”
It’s completely not why I came, but it’s the excuse I gave myself. It’s the lie I concocted while I sat in the school parking lot. It’s the ruse for getting to spend more time with him, for getting to ask him questions and learn more of his story.
Nico pushes free from the counter, and I move to the archway between the kitchen and living room, hoping he’ll follow. His hand cupped behind his neck, he stretches to look out the open screen door before his eyes come back to me.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “Where do you want to do it? Maybe…front porch?”
“That’s great,” I smile, hating that we’re moving back outside, closer to my car—closer to me leaving. I do need to get my things, though. “I’ll get my stuff, and set up. Do you…want to get different clothes on?”
My eyes have been working hard not to ogle, and now that he’s standing again, that task is proving to be more impossible. As if he can read my mind, Nico reaches up so his fingertips touch the top of the archway, stretching enough to flex the line of muscles that fall down his sides, into his shorts and…oh God.
“Yeah, I’ll meet you out there,” he says as I turn away and move toward the screen door.
I mumble out a “sounds good,” and pass between his niece and her view of the television on my way out the door, marching quickly to my car and unlocking it to pull open the passenger door. I grab my shirt and tie it around my waist, then slide the large camera bag over my shoulder so I can carry the tripod in my hands.
It takes me only a few minutes to set up a good shot on Nico’s porch. By the time I have the shot framed on the plastic chair—I’ve positioned just in front of a vine growing up a section of lattice—Nico steps through the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt with a gray X painted over the center, only slightly to the left.
Nico sinks into the seat, but straightens his posture quickly. I adjust the height of my camera, and look at his face through the lens, giving myself the gift of a few extra seconds to study his features. His teeth are almost perfectly straight, and I wonder if he’s ever had braces? His jaw is strong, and his eyes have the ability to reflect whatever color is around them—right now his brown mixing with the green grass in front of us and the bright blue of the sky. It’s so much easier to see him through the lens.
It’s so much easier to let myself.
I don’t take advantage too much, though, not wanting him to grow impatient, and when I have him framed just right, I press the record button and sit back on my heels.
“I have an extra chair, if you need it,” he says.
I hold up my hand in protest.