The Classix

(2ND DRAFT) chapter FIVE

    "That's casual," I mutter.

    When we turn the corner at the end of the street, we're greeted by a hoard of more men, looking identical to the first in their cameras and ferocity. They start snapping pictures like an army surging toward the enemy.

    "My," Cartney says, sardonic. "It's good to be home again."

    The sound of camera shots make me flinch. Since that night in Fishbowl, with all of the gunshots that were going around, anything that resembles that night in the slightest does a number on me.

    Feeling a little suffocated, I pull the wool collar of my coat closer to my face, hoping to catch the faint scent of something fruity and herbal––the remnants of the chamomile oil Melissa has been administering to Callan. She's been quite fixed on essential oils lately, from peppermint ("for sickness!") to lavender ("for headaches!") to rosemary ("for stress relief!"). Callan's favorite is the Roman chamomile, which Mel once told us has been used for centuries to give people clarity in tough times, such as preparing for battle. Of course, he's only using it for sleep, but I'll take all the clarity I can get.

    "You cold?" Cartney asks.

    "Aren't you?"

    He takes in a breath through his chattering teeth. "Hell yeah."

    "That's probably has to do with your incredibly light jacket," I tease. "I don't get why you won't wear something a little more weather-appropriate."

    Cartney shakes his head, glancing down at his moto-jacket with pride. "We both know this jacket is what really gives our pictures an edge."

    Around two months ago he purchased it after he'd established the fact that my wardrobe had made a swift turn from little burgundy overcoats and brown ankle boots. Suddenly, gone were his own coats of tweed and various shades of blue, and in were the sneakers and beanies and black fingerless gloves––all black. All things I imagine Foster would've worn, had that photoshoot ever arisen.

    I never asked Cartney to do any of it for me. I made that very clear to him the first time I saw him wearing the new getup in full. He'd been standing outside the Metropolix on a milder afternoon, grinning wide and childish with a single lily in his hands. The paparazzi was already there, just like they always were, waiting with their cameras poised for me to come out and begin our daily walk.

    "You didn't have to buy that," I'd told him.

    "Is that really how you greet your boyfriend, Ray?"

    We kissed for the cameras. Pulling away, I gave him a quick, stern look. "Was it Buchan's idea? I don't want this to become some angle––"

    "Please, I actually like these clothes," he insisted. "Buchan doesn't do all my thinking for me, you know. Plus, I noticed I've been looking like an absolute goober wearing trench coats around you lately. Now we'll be even in our cool factor."

    With that, he held out the lily for me to take. Camera flashes popped like pins as I reached out for it. A picture with our hands in close proximity sells for thousands above a picture of us standing near each other.

    "No roses at the store?" I asked.

    "There were, but this one's a mourning flower."

    My mouth dropped open, but Cartney didn't seem phased. His eyes swirled with a sort of sentiment, an understanding. He bent down to whisper in my ear, and I could only imagine how much of a kick the paparazzi got out of that.