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“I need a photo of you,” Chris says.
“N-Now?” Buck looks down at himself: long gloves, meatball hands, denim apron. This is not exactly Instagram-worthy material. Beneath the apron, he’s wearing a stretched-out shirt of Eddie’s that still smells of his cologne at the collar. He holds up his hands, brows raised. “I’ve got meatballs on my hands.”
“No. It’s for school. I need a photo of you now.”
Oh. That’s fine. Buck’s got plenty of candid shots he can email Christopher’s way. Eddie’s no photographer, but he’s always been good at catching Buck at the right angle.
But then, shattering Buck’s delight in being part of Chris’s project, he continues: “And one when you were a kid.”
“Oh.” Dread injects itself into his veins—Buck barely has any photos from his childhood, half because his parents never cared enough to take them, but half because he doesn’t exactly like looking at them. He doesn’t look like himself in them. Long blonde hair, itchy dresses, hollow eyes and skin that never fit quite right.
“Um. What’s the project?”
Or: Buck comes out to Chris.