Page 44 of Grief & Glitter

“Of course.”

“And you’re still taking photos, right?” Ryan asked.

“Yes.” I’m not the world’s best photographer, but I could point and shoot with the best of them.

“Thank you for all of this, Gids. I know I haven’t… I know we…”

Seemingly frustrated with himself at not getting the words out, he went on tiptoes and kissed me instead, but before I could hold him close, he was pulled away by Claire, who wanted to talk about something called serum.

I stood there with my hand against the spot he’d kissed and thought Wednesday suddenly seemed a long way off.

Wednesday came eventually. Ryan arrived at five with three makeup bags, a folding light, a small mirror, a case of brushes, cotton pads, something that looked vaguely medical, and enough bottles to stock a pharmacy. All of it piled on my kitchen table while I stood there trying to work out what half of it was for.

“Why do you need that many brushes?”

“Why do you need more than one hockey stick?”

“That’s completely different.”

“It really isn’t.” He held up a tube and asked me what it was. When I said lipstick, he told me it was concealer with the kind of horror on his face that suggested I’d failed a test. Maybe I had. I definitely felt something close to nervousness by the time Claire arrived, five minutes ahead of Emma, and my kitchen stopped being my kitchen.

Ryan took it over completely. A dining chair pulled to the window because the light was better there, a folding light added because apparently my actual lights were useless, a clean towel over part of the table with brushes and bottles lined up in rows as if he’d done this a hundred times instead of never. He asked Claire about allergies and sensitivities and what she normally used before he even touched her. He pulled her hair back with a soft band and leaned in to study her skin properly.

“Before photo,” he said, and I took one from where I was standing behind the camera.

He came to check it and told me I’d made her look like she was being booked for murder, taken from six feet up. I said I was tall, and he told me to bend, then get closer, then not that close—Jesus—until I found whatever angle counted as acceptable. I got better at it after that. I had to—Ryan checked every shot before he let me move on, which meant I spent most of the next two hours doing exactly what he told me.

Watching him work was the part I hadn’t expected to hold my attention the way it did. At the rink, Ryan was good at his job, careful and precise, his hands knowing the work from repetition so well he could sharpen a blade without looking down. This wasn’t that. His whole face changed when he concentrated, lips parting slightly, forehead creasing, head tilting as he studied Claire and reached for a brush, then sometimes changed his mind halfway there and picked up another one instead. He talked the entire time, not because anyone asked, but because he couldn’t help it: undertones, primer, and why foundation shouldn’t cover everything because skin was supposed to still look like skin. He showed Claire two colors on the back of his hand and asked which she preferred, then mixed them together anyway. I didn’t follow half of what he said. I followed him, though. It was obvious in every movement that he loved this: in the care around Claire’s eyes, in the way he stepped back every few minutes to check his own work, in the small smile that showed up whenever something went right.

I was supposed to be photographing the process. Ryan had been specific about that: before, during, after, close-ups of the makeup, his hands working, a few of him with whoever was sitting in the chair if they didn’t mind. He hadn’t said anything about how many of those photos could just be of him, which was probably why I had thirty-seven of them by the time Claire’s session ended. Him leaning in with one hand steady under her chin. Him stepping back to study his own work. The glitter catching at the corner of his eye when he moved into the light. Him laughing at something Claire said, head tipping back, hair catching the light too.

“Are you actually photographing the makeup?” he said eventually, without looking away from Claire’s face. “Or has that camera been pointed at me for five minutes?”

“You’re doing the makeup. You’re part of the process.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Free creepy photography,” I said, and Claire laughed from the chair. Ryan tried not to smile and mostly failed, and I took the photo anyway. That one might have been my favorite of the night.

Emma was different: different colors, different skin. Ryan cleaned every brush and swapped products before he even started because her skin ran oilier than Claire’s. I learned that everyone hates having eyeliner done by someone else, that there are apparently nine million different brushes for reasons I still couldn’t explain, and, mostly, I learned I could stand in my own living room for two hours watching Ryan be happy, and never once get bored by it.

Strangers were in my house, coats thrown over my sofa, coffee mugs on every surface, voices filling rooms that were usually silent, and none of it bothered me the way it should have. Normally I needed my place quiet, controlled, exactly where I’d left it. Tonight Ryan was in the middle of the mess he’d made, and I didn’t want any of them to leave, even though I knew they were done.

Claire hugged him on her way out. Emma booked another night, already wanting something more dramatic next time. When the door finally shut behind them, Ryan leaned back against it.

“Holy shit. I did it. Claire offered to pay me next time, but I said no because…” He shrugged. “That’s not right. I’m not even trained yet.”

“I’m so proud of you,” I blurted and hugged him tight.

He laughed as I released him. His gaze drifted past me to the kitchen table, to the brushes and palettes he still had to pack away. “I could actually do this.” Something in his voice changed when he said that.

“Yeah,” I said. “You could.”

He grinned. I lifted the camera, but he caught my wrist before I got the shot off.

“No more.”

“You’re smiling,” I defended.