“You swim for me. I decided to try something for you.” I open a folder on my computer to show Tom my new project. “How’s this for taking photos of real shit, and of my own volition?”

In my half-hour break at the bar, I shot an interesting reel of biker beards, tattoos, and grizzled stares. It was astonishing how quickly these dangerous-looking men submitted to my request for a portrait. “I realized how much better it is, taking photos of faces that have seen some hard times. I won’t be hounding you anymore. You’re too gorgeous.”

He laughs like he’s flattered and his T-shirt touches my back as he looks at the portraits. I scroll through slowly. “I’m quitting there soon, but I’m glad I realized I should do this before I do. This one told me that no one’s ever wanted a photo of him before.”

I tip my head up and watch Tom as he considers the frightening face on the screen. This is the part of my life he hates. The messy, dirty, scary place. The protector in him is desperate to pull me away, but he forces himself to exhale.

“I’m sure he’s had a few mugshots,” Tom replies, scratching his jaw. “He’s looking at the camera like he’s never had such a beautiful girl ask to take his photo.”

My heart skips two beats. Possibly three. “I’m going to get some sunset shots of the guys fucking around in the parking lot. Did you know that their patches mean different things, like codes? I want to shoot them. I don’t know why. I just feel like … collecting them.”

“Be careful, DB. I know you handle yourself, but just—” He stops himself. “I don’t have to tell you that. What could you use these photos for?”

“I guess an exhibition.” I hear the reluctance in my own voice. Winning the Rosburgh prize and watching Jamie work the crowd has ruined that room-full-of-people prospect for me. It’s astonishing how vivid it still feels, even after all these years. My accomplishment—arguably the peak of my career—was the result of my brother existing. Something about watching him pose beneath his own portrait had cracked something inside me.

“I just realized that winning that prize was the worst thing that ever happened to me. It made me believe I can’t do anything without Jamie.”

Tom leans over and snags one of Truly’s Underswears lookbooks. It turned out really well from the printers. He puts it on my keyboard. “Well, we know that’s not true. What about an art book?”

I consider it. Tom’s so smart. “I could start posting some on social media, get a following, then try to get a book deal. I could photograph different clubs from all over the world.”

His forearm wraps around my collarbone in a hug. It feels like an involuntary move. Like he has to. “Or you could focus on this club and be back in bed where you belong.”

“Don’t worry, I still don’t have a passport.” I touch my fingers on the sealed envelope. “I haven’t got a stamp.” I let myself lean back on him. Just a little. I feel the pleasure purr out of him, into me, and it’s incredible what we can create together when we stop trying. I put my hand on his forearm and close my eyes.

“You know this is the longest I’ve lived in one place since I was eighteen?”

“I did know that. How does living in the one place feel?”

“It feels nice. But I don’t want to admit it.” I open my eyes. “You don’t live in the one place either.”

“No. Probably won’t for a long time.” His arm slides off me, and I’m cold.

He changes the subject abruptly. “You’re not working tomorrow night, right? It was brought to my attention recently that I have no life.”

“I don’t have a life either. Don’t be taking advice from someone who can’t walk up two flights of stairs or eat fresh greens before they rot.” I can admit the truth in this half-light. I stand up and try to escape this awkward confession, maybe take a dip in the fish pond to cool my embarrassed flush, but he just presses me to his body in a delicious squeeze.

“I’m worried sick about you.” He whispers it above my head.

“I’m okay,” I say to his flawless heart, beating so strong beneath my cheek.

“All I want is to take care of you, but you make it so hard.”

“I know I do. But if it’s going to feel this good, maybe I should let you fuss over me. Just a little, sometimes, when no one’s watching.”

“You better not be messing with me.” He’s tucking me closer, threading his forearm up my back, cupping my head. “I know a one-chance offer when I see one.” He always has been smarter than me.

I whisper it. “It’s only you that can fuss, though. No one else.”

“It’ll be hard for me to fuss over you when you’re in a different hemisphere.”

I think of the airport departure lounge and it doesn’t give me the same tingle. Bus, train, and plane routes branch out in my imagination from every international airport I’ve arrived in. All I feel is tired. “Don’t you want to go places?”

“I’m not brave like you, Darce. When I take a vacation, I’ll start small.” He smiles like he feels foolish. “The beach in front of your parents’ house was as close as I’ve come to a vacation in years. And I didn’t even get in the water. Sad, I guess, to someone like you.” He eases back from me. “Maybe we can get a life together sometime, before you leave.”

I didn’t expect that. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t done this in a long time. But you’re the best person I know to teach me. Let’s just go get a drink to celebrate. Two weeks into the renovation. I need to talk to you about something important.”

I stiffen in terror. “Oh fuck. Just tell me now.”

He shakes his head. “Trust me.”

* * *

IT’S OUR FAKE date night. Tom wants to talk to me about something, and I think it’s something important, and related to the sexual fog we’re blundering around in. I have never been this nervous waiting for a man.

He’s talking to some guys at the side of the house. They are all looking up at the roof. It’s hard to get used to the fact that my house is now a group project. One of them says something that makes Tom’s head turn toward me.

“Yeah, this is not a girl you keep waiting,” I hear him reply. “Call me if you have any problems.”

“Don’t make me drag you,” I call out to him.

“She would,” he says with a laugh. There’s some hand shaking and now he’s walking up the driveway to me in his clean get-a-life clothes and I think about how being an adult suits him.

As a teenager, he was sweet and straightforward, with zero idea of his own appeal as he hauled himself out of swimming pools while every girl—and some of the boys—in the bleachers paused their music and leaned forward. Looking back on it, I was insane for him.

Now he’s got this huge shape that I can’t get used to, all stacked smoothly into his clothes. His stomach is flat under the waist of his nice jeans and with each step the denim goes tight across the thighs. There are so many steps up the drive. By the time he reaches me, I need a defibrillator.