Release Me

engaged. Off limits. Jesus, Jamie.”
    “I—” But she doesn’t finish. Just grabs a towel and wraps it around herself.
    “Shit.” The curse bursts out of me. “Shit, damn,
fuck
.” I am not an expert curser, so that’s pretty brutal for me. “Did you fuck him?”
    Her lips are tight together, but she gives just the tiniest nod.
    I leave the bathroom and slam the door behind me. Ollie is still standing by the door, and I can tell from his expression that he either overheard our conversation or is smart enough to have figured out the gist of it.
    “Jesus, Ollie,” I say.
    He looks contrite. Hell, he looks beat up. “I fucked up, Nik. What can I say?”
    I exhale. I’m furious, but this is Ollie and I love him and I have to be there for him. For him, and for Jamie.
Oh, God. Jamie
. “It had to be Jamie? You couldn’t have fucked someone I don’t love? You guys are my best friends—I don’t want to be in the middle of this.”
    “I know. I do. I’m sorry. Look, come get some lunch with me. I’ll—we can talk. Or not talk. Just come, okay?”
    I nod. “I’ll just have a tea or something. I had a huge lunch with Damien.”
    “Damien,” he repeats, and I force myself not to wince. I hadn’t meant to mention Damien’s name. “Christ, Nik. He’s bad news.”
    “Don’t you dare,” I say, and I have to work to keep tight control on my voice. “Don’t you dare give me that shit. You can’t stand here and tell me you don’t like Damien Stark. You can’t toss something like that at me and stand there like you’ve got the moral high ground beneath your feet, because you so do not.”
    “You’re right—you’re right.” He runs his fingers through his already untidy hair. “Listen, I’m just gonna get a burger and head back to the office. We should talk tomorrow, okay? You can berate me about Jamie all you want. And maybe I’ll even have some shit to tell you, too.”
    “About Damien?” I ask coldly.
    He hooks his thumb at the door. “I’m going to just—I really am sorry.”
    I don’t bother saying anything else. I watch him go, and then I take my stuff and stomp off to my room. My mood is vile, and twice I pick up the phone and think about calling Damien. But what would I say?
Hi, you want to paint me and you’re paying me to be your plaything and so I thought I’d call you and dump my friends’ problems on you?
Somehow, that just didn’t seem right.
    Jamie’s still in the bathroom, most likely because she’s either avoiding me or working up the courage to talk to me. Honestly, I’m not in any hurry.
    I boot up my laptop and use the cord from the Leica’s box to download the images into Photoshop. The first one that loads is the rippled image of the wave-battered beach. It’s crisp and clean and makes me think of escape. As if I could step into the froth that the camera has captured and let the tide tug me out to sea, away from everything and everyone.
    Except I don’t want to get away from everyone
.…
    I open another image, and find myself looking at Damien. I’ve caught him in motion, and I think that’s appropriate. When I think of Damien Stark, he’s always moving. He’s a man whomakes things happen. He’s action personified, and I’ve managed to catch that, along with something else.
Joy
.
    He’d been turning toward me when I snapped the picture, and his face fills my screen. His lips are parted with the beginning of a laugh, and the afternoon light is reflected in his eyes. His expression is wide open and he’s completely in the moment. My chest feels heavy with emotion. I’ve seen him smile and laugh and smirk and tease, but only in this captured moment have I truly seen exultation.
    I press my fingertips to the computer screen and touch Damien’s face. Damien, so strong and yet so injured.
    I think of the scars that mar my body and pull up my feet so that my heels rest on the desk chair. Then I hug my knees tight. Damien may not have taken a knife to his skin, but I know that he’s scarred, too. But when I look at his face—at the euphoria in this image—it’s not the injuries I see, but the man who survived them.
    After a few minutes, I hear the bathroom door open and Jamie’s soft footfalls on the carpet. They pause outside my door and I tense, but she doesn’t knock and a few moments later I hear the click of her door. I wait a minute, and then head for the bathroom for a shower. I feel gross, soiled by my friends’ dirty laundry. I want