She put the sandwiches on plates and brought them to the table. “Be careful of downed power lines.”
It seemed clear that everyone knew about this potential hazard but me. “We will.”
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy spending time with him.”
“We’re probably just going to take photographs.”
I’m pretty sure Aunt Linda noticed my deflection, but she didn’t press. Instead, she smiled.
“Then you’ll probably become an excellent photographer one day.”
*
After lunch I studied, or tried to, anyway. I kept getting interrupted by the sight of the manila envelope, which seemed to insist that I peek at Bryce’s picture instead.
It was several hours before Bryce pulled up. As soon as I heard the truck idling in the driveway, I grabbed the camera and started down the steps, grinning at the sight of Daisy in the bed. She whined and wagged her tail as I approached, so I stopped to give her some love. Bryce, meanwhile, had hopped out and rounded the truck so he could open the door for me, and my heart did the crazy pitter-patter thing again. He offered an arm to help me up—he’d showered and I could see drops of water still dripping from his hair—and when he closed the door, a voice inside scolded me to get a grip.
We drove through town, chatting easily while stopping here and there to take photos. Near the hotel, where the boat was resting on its side in the middle of the road, I spent a lot of time trying to get just the right shot. In the end, I handed the camera to Bryce to let him try, and I found myself watching him walk away, noting again the fluid way he moved. I knew he was working out to get ready for West Point, but his natural grace and coordination made me think that he would have been good at any sport.
Then again, why should that surprise me? Bryce, as far as I could tell, seemed to be good at everything. He was the perfect son and older brother, smart and athletic, handsome and empathetic. Best of all, he made all of it seem effortless. Even his demeanor was like no one else’s I’d known, especially when compared to the boys at my school. A lot of them seemed nice enough when I talked with them one-on-one, but when they hung out with their friends, they’d preen and act cool and say idiotic things and I’d end up wondering who they really were.
And yet, if Madison and Jodie found their attention flattering—and they definitely did—I wondered what they’d think of Bryce. Oh, they’d notice right off the bat that he was cute, but would they care about his intelligence or his patience or his interest in photography? Or that he was training an assistance dog to help someone in a wheelchair? Or that he was the kind of teenager who helped his father board up homes for people like Aunt Linda and Gwen?
I wasn’t sure, but I had the sense that for Madison and Jodie, the way he looked would have been more than enough, and the rest would be only mildly interesting. And, if J was any indication, I’d probably been the same way before I’d arrived here and met a guy who’d given me a reason to change my mind.
But why was that? I used to think I was mature for my age, but adulthood still seemed like a mirage, and I wondered if part of that had to do with high school in general. When I thought back, it seemed like I’d spent all my time trying to get people to like me, as opposed to figuring out whether I liked them. Bryce hadn’t gone to school or had to deal with all those idiotic pressures, so maybe for him, that had never been an issue. He’d been free to be himself, and it made me wonder who I would have become had I not been so caught up in trying to be exactly like my friends.
It was too much to think about and I shook my head, trying to force the thoughts away. Bryce had climbed on top of a dumpster to get a better view of the boat in the road. Daisy, who’d tagged along with him, stared upward before finally remembering my presence. She trotted toward me, tail wagging, then curled around my legs. Her brown eyes were so friendly, I couldn’t help but lean over. I cupped her jaw in my hands and kissed her on the nose. As I did, I heard the faint sound of a shutter clicking. When I glanced up, Bryce—still on the dumpster—wore a sheepish expression as he lowered the camera.
“I’m sorry,” he called out. He jumped down, landing like a gymnast, and started toward me. “I know I should have asked, but I couldn’t resist.”
Though I’d never liked photos of myself, I shrugged. “It’s okay. I took one of you yesterday.”
“I know,” he said. “I saw you.”
“You did?”
He shrugged without answering. “What next? Anything else you want to see or do?”