Time-Lapse by J.B. Heller

Chapter Eighteen

“You knowI hate going to the showings, Bee. Don’t make me.” I’m begging like a child, and I don’t even care. That’s how much I loathe attending my own exhibitions. Listening to people pick apart my work and try to dissect the meaning behind a particular photograph annoys the shit out of me. They don’t understand why I shoot the way I do.

My photography has been given many labels over the years. The most recent is one I’m pretty sure was made up because my work doesn’t fit into any of their boxes, yet it fits them all. They are calling me a randomist.

When I read the latest write-up heralding me as a pioneer in that particular field, I rolled my eyes and threw the article in the trash. What a load of shit. I don’t have a style. I never have. I shoot what captures my attention. That’s it. I don’t adhere to the rules of any particular method.

It still annoys me. Randomist. I mean, fucking really? It makes me sound like a douchebag.

Bee’s voice brings me back to the present. “Yes, you have to go. You are the reason people pay big money to come to the opening night of these events, Hux. They want to mingle with the talent.”

“You mean the gold-diggers—thirty years younger than their sugar-daddy husbands—pay big money to come so they can attempt to grope me when their husbands are off drinking whiskey and smoking cigars on the balcony, bragging about how much younger their current trophy wife is,” I say dryly, because that’s exactly what ends up happening.

Bee tsks. “You’re being dramatic, Huxley.”

I raise a brow. “Oh, I’m Huxley now?”

She nods. “Petulant children get called by their full names when behaving like brats,” she says as she performs her this-is-happening-so-deal-with-it move and puts her hands on her hips, leveling me with her no-bullshit stare.

I carry on behaving like a child and throw my hands in the air. “Fine, but don’t expect me to like it.”

She pats me on top of the head as she walks past me in the living room we’ve shared for nearly five years. I swipe her hand away, pouting on the couch, and glare at her retreating form.

“Glare all you like. You’re doing this,” she calls over her shoulder on her way down the short hallway to her bedroom.

I slump back in my seat. She very rarely lets me get out of these events, but I still try every time she informs me of the next one.

Bee has been my best friend for the last five years and my manager-slash-publicist for the last three. At first, I thought branching out on my own was a bad idea, but she convinced me to give her six months to make a name for me. She did it in four.

When I first arrived on the coast, I had no plans of staying. It was supposed to be a stop along the way, but I met Bee, and she changed everything. She had a unique perspective of life that I found appealing. So, when she mentioned needing a roommate and cheap rent, I agreed to move in.

She is, by far, the bossiest woman I’ve ever met. And I’ve worked with models who thought their looks entitled them to treat everyone as their personal assistant.

Those bitches I could ignore, but Bee? She followed through with her threats, so it was easier and safer to do as I was told.

I’m not sure if it’s normal to be afraid of your manager, but I fucking am. Best friend or not, she would kick my ass if I ignored her advice and did something that damaged my career in any way.

“Where is this thing anyway?” I call after to her.

She pokes her head out of her room and does something that makes me immediately suspicious: she looks down at her ring-covered fingers and acts as if she’s admiring the glint of light coming off the impressive gems. “Well, we could drive, make a road trip of it, or we can fly. The flight is only two hours. I don’t mind either way.”

I arch my brow. “That didn’t answer my question at all. Where’s the exhibition, Bee?”

She licks her lips then walks out of her room and toward me. My eyes narrow, and she avoids making eye contact with me. Even when she parks her butt on the edge of the coffee table directly in front of me, she’s looking at the rug on the floor.

“Bee,” I hedge.

She hunches her shoulders and rolls her eyes. “Ugh, fine. I was going to surprise you. I mean, it’s not like you even care where I book your shows.”

I don’t like the direction I think this is heading in. “I don’t like surprises. You know that.”

Bee nods and sighs. “Don’t get mad. I’ve avoided it for the last couple of years, but it’s time. And you have a huge fan base there. The exhibition has sold out of opening night tickets already—in record time, actually. There’s been a lot of talk in the art community, wondering when you would finally go there.”

She’s babbling. And I know without her even saying it. She’s going to try to make me go back. I start shaking my head. “No, nope, not happening, Bee. I’m not even going to fight you on this. It’s not up for discussion. I’m not doing it.”

Her arms cross over her ample chest, and she stands. “Yes, Hux, you are. This is too big to back out of. It’s already done.”

I stand, too, bringing us toe to toe. “I said no. I’m not going back there.”

“Yes. You. Are.”

I close my eyes, my fists clench at my sides, and I pray for the strength to resist strangling her stubborn ass. When I open them again, she hasn’t backed down. “You of all people know I can’t—and won’t—go back there. It’s not even an option.”

With a huff, her hands move to her hips. “Hux, it’s been five years. Five! And you’re still avoiding that entire part of the country. The exhibition isn’t in your old hometown. It’s in the city. You won’t see him.”

My entire body tenses at the mention of my father. My teeth grit together almost painfully, and it takes a gargantuan effort to keep myself in check when all I want to do right now is smash my fist into the wall to release some of this … this hate.

As much as I’ve tried to forget about him and my life back there, I can’t. It is an ever-present weight on my shoulders. A constant battle to acknowledge how far I have come despite what I am.

A soft hand wraps around my tight fist and slowly begins to unfurl my fingers, one by one. And I let her.

“Hux, he still controls you. But you’re the one who lets him get inside your head. You haven’t seen or heard from him in five years, yet you’re as angry today as the day I met you.”

What am I supposed to do about that? I left. I walked away from the only good thing in my life. I thought it would bring us both peace. I thought it would relieve some of the guilt I carry, but it hasn’t. Not even a little.

What it has done is increased my resentment toward him.

And the more time that passes, the more I fear I’ll never be more than the person he turned me into.