Page 69 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
That big question mark over my aunt just splintered into a thousand tiny little ones.
I watch as Ryder holds his phone toward the pond, trying different angles. He snaps a photo and frowns at the screen.
“Garbage,” he grumbles, taking another shot from a slightly different angle. “How do people make this look easy?”
I can’t help myself. I get off the bench and watch his attempts get worse and worse.
My fingers itch.
No, I shouldn’t help. I swore off photography. I haven’t had the urge to capture a photo since shutting down the social media account for my parents’ catering business.
But the instinct is stronger than my resistance.
Lifting onto my tiptoes to match his tall frame, I reach out and tilt his phone screen down slightly. “Try it now.”
Ryder takes the photo, and his face brightens with surprise. “Whoa. It looks way better. How did you do that?”
I turn away, flushed. “Simple composition. Nothing to it.”
He taps on his screen. “Do you think I should post this?”
I shrug, trying to sound disinterested. “If you want.”
“Do you think something else would look better?”
I clutch my elbows. “I really don’t know.”
Ryder bends his knees and slides his phone into my line of vision. “Alice, in one movement you made my photo look better than anything else I’ve posted online. You’ve got to have some kind of knack for this.”
I remember Dad’s voice.“For capturing all your adventures, Sprout.”
I wince. “Is this what the promotions guys want? Something not taken in a studio?”
He nods, holding his phone out for the taking. “I’m supposed to intersperse them between the professional shots.”
I blow out a breath and take the phone before the grief orders me not to do it.
“Maybe get your guitar and sit by the edge of the pond,” I suggest.
“You want me to pose with my guitar?”
“It’s a pretty background, and with this overcast sky it’d create a really moody image.” I shrug. “Could be a good look for someone who plays alt-rock.”
Ryder lifts his acoustic guitar out of its case. “I’m game.”
As he walks toward the pond, I take a large gulp of air, holding it for four before letting it go.
He settles by the pond’s edge with the instrument across his lap. “Like this?” he asks.
“Don’t look at the camera.”
“Where am I supposed to look?”
I frame him on the phone screen. “The ducks, the water, the trees. Just... away. Distant.”
The composition comes naturally. Ryder in the foreground with his guitar, the peaceful pond in the middle ground, and the dramatic mountains rising in the background.
His fingers find the strings, and he’s not posing anymore. Just... playing.
