It is September 25th, but damn, it's still hot in Las Vegas. I never knew how hot it really was here. I thought Boise summers were relentless. This feels like the hottest day in Boise, even though it's fall. I wipe my forehead. At least the shade of the tree makes life feel bearable. My back is pushed up against the bark. One hand picks at the grass, the other rests on the blank page in front of me. I should be sketching. This project is due in a few hours, but here I am, watching as students meander to classes that they barely care about.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. It's Ash. Of course it's Ash. He's the only one who texts me these days.
I smile. That kid… He doesn't know the half of what his texts mean to me. Not that I'd ever voice that. It feels weird to get all emotional with your cousin, unless it's 3 AM on a Saturday night, when nothing seems to matter.
"Hey."
I look up from my phone, and a tall young man is standing over me. His olive skin radiates in the sunlight. "You're in my art class, aren't you?" The way he puts micro-pauses between his words makes me wonder if he's trying to draw out his speech for as long as possible.
"I think you're in my art class," I respond.
He smirks, the kind of smirk where half his mouth stays the same but the other side climbs. I like that about him. I almost smile, but catch myself before I do. He pulls a Polaroid camera from his bag. A Polaroid… This guy really is trying hard, isn't he?
"I'm working on a project for my photography class where I'm supposed to photograph 'interesting strangers,'" the guy says, looking down at his camera. His grey eyes are disturbingly bright—the kind that might glow in the dark. "Can I take your picture?"
"What makes me so interesting?" I ask. It almost feels insulting to be called interesting. What? Do I look like a fucking piece of art? No. Not me.
"Something about how you're sitting—it's…" His smirk melts into a full smile. "I don't know, you just are a beautiful person."
Is he flirting with me? He certainly has the signature "gay voice," which normally would annoy me, but I know that's just my homegrown homophobia from Idaho. If I were out of the closet, I might sound the same. It's stupid, the things we inherit from places we outgrow.
"I don't think I'm the type of interesting person who will get you a good grade on your assignment," I say, returning my attention to the blank page. I expect him to take the hint. Maybe we will occasionally say "hi" to each other in art class.
"Well then, Mr. Stoic, I'll just sit here until you become interesting," he says as he sits down on the grass in front of me. "I'm Jude, by the way."
He's sitting directly in the sunlight, and I can't imagine how hot he is. Well, I know how hot he is, but maybe not temperature-wise. I shake the thought from my head. "Rowan," I reply.
I stare down at the paper while Jude stares at me. I'm not sure what he's waiting for. I mean, I fucking do, but it isn't going to happen. The most interesting thing I've ever done is trapped in sketchbooks that I'll never show anyone. I may be an art major, but I'm shit at it. I've only ever shared my art with Ash, who has repeatedly told me that I'm good at what I do. I'll believe it when it feels true.
I'm not even sure why I'm here at UNLV. Mom and Dad gave me a college fund, so I figured I'd use it, but I'll never be the artist that I'm trying to be. I know that's just imposter syndrome talking, but some people are actually imposters. Why would I be different?
I want to start sketching, but the silence between Jude and me is almost palpable. I think he might even follow me around campus until I become the type of interesting he's looking for. It's been nearly half an hour of him watching me stare at a blank page.
"Alright." I finally look up at Jude, who's picking at the grass. "If I ever do become interesting—which isn't going to happen, photo boy—then I get to sketch you."
"Oh? Are you going to sketch me like one of your French girls?"
It's instantaneous—a laugh I can't catch. Before I can stop myself, Jude has the camera to his eye—click. The click lasts a moment past eternity, echoing in my ears. Maybe that is what forever sounds like.
"So, French girl sketch time?" he says, shaking the photo in the air so it develops. He pulls out a pen and dates the photo: September 25th [ERROR: YEAR NOT FOUND] 11:45 AM.
"Jude, you're the strangest person I've ever met. But, like, strange in the most fantastical way. Like out of a book or something."
He glances down at the photo and hands it to me. I look ridiculous mid-laugh, but he's right: I do look interesting here, I guess. I reach out to hand it back to him.
"No, keep it."
"Don't you need it for…?"
"I wanted an excuse to take your picture. Just keep it, and remember that sometimes, strangers are worth the wait." I guess I should have known then that he wouldn't wait forever.
—should have known—
but I didn't.