The Christmas Pic

24. Jo

CHAPTER 24

JO

I watch Ava adjust the tripod before finding a perch atop a Pelican case we’ve managed to fit into the confined darkroom. I’ll admit, it’s a little less magical when you can see the empty developing trays and cold tile floors, but Ava frames me up so it’s still visually interesting. I’m fulfilling my end of the bargain by being on this side of the camera again, but it doesn’t mean I like it. At least being in my dad’s old space gives me a sense of support from beyond. God knows I need it.

Ava studies me through the iPhone she’s shooting on. “Maybe less of a grimace?”

I guess I’m not masking my discomfort well. I take a deep breath and try to smile at her in a natural way. She balks. “That’s actually not better.”

“Well neither were you!” I retort.

She chuckles and walks over to me, running her fingers through my hair to try and tame it. It’s for the camera, but I can’t help enjoying the sensation like any sensible person with a scalp would.

She stops and moves to the table next to us, inspecting a steel tank.

“That’s a daylight tank, it’s–” I start .

“Used for processing roll film, I know,” she laughs. “Didn’t I tell you I have one of these?”

“A darkroom?”

“Yes,” she says. “In a spare bedroom. I had it converted. I thought I told you I’m a photography nerd.”

I learn something new I like about her every day. Shit.

She takes in the small space. “How often do you use this as an actual darkroom?”

“Hardly ever,” I admit. “The truck biz is fully digital, I don’t usually have a reason to develop film.”

“I’d say you do. That cyanotype portrait of Emma in your backhouse is captivating.”

Do not think about the naked tango that took place right after she admired your artwork.

“My dad taught me about cyanotypes in this very darkroom,” I tell her.

“He must have been a good teacher then.”

“The best. He always guest lectured at the community college when he had time.”

Ava puts the tank down and returns to her seat behind the camera.

“Take it away.” I roll my shoulders, trying to relax.

"So, Jo, tell me about where we are right now. Not only the studio, but the town.” Ava’s on-camera voice carries a formal tint, but there's genuine interest in her eyes.

I launch into one of my favorite special interests, the history of Harmony Springs. I start with the gold rush and lay out the entire saga, all the way up until the shocking deathbed letter and the founding of the town.

Ava shakes her head in awe. “You don’t hear much about queer people trying to live their lives a hundred years ago.”

“They existed, but history has been traditionally written by straight white dudes. Harmony Springs stands as a testament to what a place can be when it’s founded on principles of inclusion and understanding, rather than bigoted views on purity and assimilation.”

I have to hand it to her–she’s a natural interviewer, in spite of how acerbic and abrasive she can come across in day-to-day interactions. She listens actively, asking all sorts of follow-up questions, about Harmony Springs’ founding, the town’s connection with Christmas, and Roger’s journey to Chrissy. I lose track of time and the camera, talking animatedly as ever about my father.

"He sounds like he was a great influence on you," Ava observes.

"He was," I affirm, a vivid memory surfacing. "Actually, he was the first person I told I was gay. His support made facing the rest of the world easier."

“Even in Harmony Springs?”

“Even in Harmony Springs.”

"Was it difficult, coming out here?"

Nostalgia and a tinge of pain thread through my words. "We’re in a protective bubble in this town, but the outside world still permeates. Movies and music and literature are still overwhelmingly straight. Coming out means accepting that your life strays from what most of the world considers the ‘norm’.”

Ava nods thoughtfully. "I can only imagine."

I can sense she wants to ask more but doesn’t, so I keep going. “I was drawn to women before I even had a concept of sexuality. My Barbies dated each other, my Ken dolls stayed in their boxes. And when I was little, like younger than ten, I would go through phases of intense obsession with different actresses. I didn’t understand they were crushes, even though that’s obvious in hindsight.”

“Did you ever watch Buffy?” she asks.

“Sarah Michelle Gellar was a big puzzle piece for me,” I chuckle. “Why? ”

“No reason.” She gets back on track. “You never dated a boy?”

I laugh. “Oh, I absolutely dated a few boys.”

She’s surprised. “But you knew from such a young age?”

I shake my head. “I knew, but I didn’t. Even in a queer place like Harmony Springs, there’s still social capital to be gained by playing along with heteronormativity. I didn’t think about it consciously, but when a guy asked me to prom sophomore year, I genuinely had never been more elated.”

“Really?”

“Like I’d won a competition. A be-normal-and-average contest that no one but me realized I was competing in.”

Ava’s eyes widen as she digests what I’ve said. “So what was the tipping point? What broke you out of your hetero reverie?”

I’m not sure I want to answer, but I do it anyway. “I fell in love.”

She sits back. “Oh.”

“I drove her home from a party junior year because she lived nearby, and before she got out of my car, she kissed me. From that moment on, no guy was ever gonna compare for me.” I pause. “And then I found out about her fiance.”

“Oof.”

“I was shattered. In some ways, that heartbreak was further evidence of my queerness, because it hurt me in places I didn’t realize existed. I’d never felt that about any guy I’d dated.”

“How did you keep it a secret with Wynnie?”

“We didn’t do anything to keep it a secret. That’s why I was so blindsided. I think people have an easy time writing off women being intimate with one another as intense friendship until someone suggests otherwise.”

She takes that in. “I guess our society kind of can’t digest a romantic relationship that doesn’t involve a man in some way.”

“An astute observation,” I tell her, and she sits up a bit straighter. “I think lesbians have been commodified in many ways in pop culture for this exact reason. It connects as well to people questioning bisexuals. If you’re a bi man, people assume you’re secretly gay. And if you’re a bi woman, people assume you’re doing it for male attention.”

She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and I get a flash of my hands in that hair a few nights ago. Leave it, Jo.

“So after Wynnie broke your heart… did you keep dating?” she asks hesitantly.

I want to take a moment to linger on why she’s asking some of these questions, but it seems safer not to analyze any of it right now.

“I mean, that first heartbreak sticks with you, but yeah, I moved on… and around.”

Ava simpers. “A gay high school Casanova.”

I hold my hands up. “Listen, I’m a lovergirl.” That gets a blush. “My dad was a decent wingman. He was quite the lothario before meeting my mom. I think he was kinda stoked that I liked girls. He had someone to pass his knowledge down to.”

Ava snorts. “Good for Roger. And you, I guess.” She reaches up and turns off the camera. “We can cut the end out.”

“Whatever makes sense for your video, just don’t use the Wynnie parts,” I request.

“Of course.” She toys with her lower lip and we fall into silence.

Thinking about my dad, I open my wallet, slipping out the worn Polaroid of me and him that I snuck from its hiding place on the truck. Wordlessly, I hand it to Ava, who studies it closely.

“You’re exactly the same,” she says.

“Gee, thanks.”

“He looks kind,” she says after a while, before handing the photo back.

“He was.” I slip Roger back into my wallet, a safe spot before I return him home to the truck .

My stomach growls rudely.

“I’m starving as well,” Ava assures me.

An idea strikes me as if Roger had shouted it from the photo itself.

“After lunch,” I start, “Roger gave me an idea about somewhere to go.”

“I’m scared to ask if he’s wingmanning you from the beyond,” she says.

I can’t hold in my flirtatious response. “I guess you’ll hafta find out.”

Oops. Sue me.

After Max and Emma bring us lunch, I drive Ava to Winter Wonderland, home of Harmony Springs’ largest outdoor skating rink.

When she sees the big sign, her eyes widen. “Ice skating?”

“You said you wanted to skate like Big Bird,” I say.

The smile that wins out on her lips floods me with warmth.

The rink is hopping for the early afternoon, and two different groups of carollers compete for the ears of the skaters at opposite ends of the rink.

Ava keeps her big sunglasses and knit hat on while we’re out, and I understand her reasoning, although I can’t fully shake the trigger of feeling hidden.

We find a bench to put on our skates. She watches me lace mine up, nervous. “You’re gonna be fine. Hold onto me.”

Skates laced, we hobble toward the rink. I step onto the ice first and put my arms out to her. She takes hold, and for a moment we’re positioned like preteens in a middle school slow dance. I don’t hate it, but I also want her to experience the magical freeing sensation of gliding across the ground, so I turn and offer her my hand instead .

“Trust that falling doesn’t hurt that bad, and don’t lean so far forward that you fall flat on your face.”

“My face?” she worries.

“I’m not gonna let you fall on your face,” I promise.

And for the following two hours, I keep that promise. To be specific, she never falls on her face, only her ass. She doesn’t gain the confidence to let go of my hand for more than a few halting scoots across the ice, but I don’t mind at all. Instead, we clasp hands–or rather, she grips mine for dear life and I get what I can out of the numbing sensation. By the end of our time at the rink, she’s willing to hold hands with our arms outstretched and I pull her around to the mashed-up caroling of Santa Baby and Jingle Bells.

I offer her the crook of my elbow as we make our way to the rink’s exit, but before stepping off the ice, she stops me. “Okay, wait, I want to see if I can do it on my own.” I admire her gumption, knowing how palpable her fear still is.

She takes off toward the middle of the rink, where there’s no wall to grab for safety, and I watch in awe as she glides gracefully, confidently. I begin to grasp how she handles running a billion-dollar company every day. She grasps how to coexist with her own fear.

I’m watching with admiration as she turns and waves at me proudly from across the rink. She begins skating back toward me… disastrously crossing paths with a hulking 200-pound ice hockey player I went to school with.

I skate as fast as possible to where she’s laying on the ice, shooting daggers at the lug who smashed into her. I offer my hand and pull her up as she winces.

“Are you okay? Should we go to the hospital?” I ask urgently.

She shakes her head but flinches as we skate to the exit. “No hospital but… ice?” Her eyes flit away for a moment, then draw back to mine. “My hotel has an ice machine. ”

“Let’s go then,” I say, choosing not to interrogate the inherent acceptance that wherever we go next, we are going together.