The One He's Been Looking For

Chelsea’s eyes shot to Ian before she allowed Dylan to help her to her feet.

“What I want,” Ian said in frustration, “is just one model who doesn’t have the same face that I’ve seen a million times before!”

Ian walked over to his receptionist. “Take Chelsea, for instance.”

Dylan bent down and scooped up the head shots of the models he had found. He stood up and looked at his friend with apprehension. Usually he could count on Ian to be diplomatic, but lately, he’d become a loose cannon.

“She’s a beautiful woman,” Ian said to Dylan before he turned to Chelsea. “You’re a beautiful woman.”

“Thank you.” Chelsea’s smile brightened. Receiving a compliment from Ian Sterling was like winning the lottery for an aspiring model.

“But there’s nothing new here, there’s nothing special here. I’m looking for a face that I’ve haven’t seen before, a face that makes me feel...inspired. Is that too much to ask?” Ian looked from one to the other of them questioningly.

His receptionist looked crestfallen and her smile faded. The color drained from her face as she spun on her heel and headed toward the door. She reached for the doorknob and slipped out. Dylan could hear the drawer of her desk being slammed shut. If she came back, he’d have to smooth things over with her.

“I don’t know, Ian....” Dylan frowned at his long-time friend. “Is it too much to ask for you to be polite every once in a while?”

Ian glanced up, surprised to discover that Chelsea had left. He stared at the closed door for a second before he rubbed the back of his neck. He had been trying to make a point to Dylan, not insult Chelsea.

With a sigh, Ian said, “I’ll talk to her when she gets back. I’ll apologize.”

“I know you well enough to know that you’ll try to make it right, Ian. But here’s a novel thought—let’s get back to the days when you weren’t regularly insulting folks. Let’s bring that Ian back. I miss that guy.”

Ian’s jaw set. “I wouldn’t waste my time thinking about that if I were you.”

“Maybe you think it’s a waste of time.” Dylan dropped the head shots in an unceremonious pile on the desk. “But I don’t.”

When he didn’t respond, Dylan continued. “Look. I get that you were handed a raw deal here, okay? Even when I try to imagine what you’re going through— Honestly, I can’t. But let me ask you this—what good does it do you to take it out on everyone around you?”

“I said I’d apologize and I will,” Ian said tersely. “But don’t go holding your breath for the old Ian to come back, okay? He’s dead.”

Not waiting for his friend’s answer, he walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the walls of his studio, unlatched the plantation shutters that blocked out most of the natural light, and yanked them open. When the bright sunlight streamed into the room, he quickly covered his eyes with his hand. When he was twenty-eight, he had been diagnosed with a type of macular degeneration called Stargardt disease. Not only was the condition destroying his central vision, it had made his eyes sensitive to bright light.

“Dammit!” Ian grabbed his sunglasses from the inside pocket of his blazer and slipped them on quickly. The sunglasses worked double-duty—they had special lenses that helped him cope with light sensitivity, but also protected his eyes from UV rays that were destroying his central vision in the first place. Rain or shine, the sunglasses had become his constant companion.

Ian stood still for a moment, breathed in deeply until the pain in his eyes subsided. After a moment, he slowly, cautiously opened his eyes and looked down sullenly at the movement on the street below.

“Are you okay?” Dylan asked.

“I’m fine,” he said roughly. It was a lie and they both knew it. But sometimes the lie was easier to handle.

Dylan shook his head. He felt powerless. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t figure out how to help Ian and make things more...tolerable.

Ian continued to stare out at the city street below. He hated the pity he heard in his friend’s voice. Pity was the last thing he wanted. And that nerve-grinding sound of pity was exactly why he had worked so hard to keep his condition a secret. But keeping the secret was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day. The truth was he had been living on borrowed time. Many people with Stargardt disease were legally blind by his age. He had been diagnosed later than most and the progression had been slow. The central vision in his left eye was completely blurred, but he still had his right eye. For now. But Ian couldn’t ignore that changes were coming, just as he couldn’t ignore that life as he knew it was about to drastically change.

The doctor who had unceremoniously broken the news to him that Stargardt was a “no treatment, no cure” one-way trip to legal blindness, had encouraged him to continue to exercise regularly, eat healthy, avoid foods rich in vitamin A and quit drinking alcohol ASAP. He’d referred him to a low-vision specialist and a psychologist to help him prepare for the changes to come. But how could anyone really prepare him to lose everything he loved: his career, his business...photography? Hadn’t he earned the right to be angry?

“This book is part of my legacy as a photographer,” Ian said in a controlled, quiet voice. His back was still turned to Dylan. “When all is said and done, and I can’t see my own hand if I hold it up in front of my face, I’ll know that this book exists. That my work lives on in it. That...I live on in it. Which means...I need a woman who can breathe life into every single shot. I need a woman who can help me make this book the best representation of Ian Sterling photography.” He glanced over his shoulder at Dylan. “So excuse me if I feel a sense of urgency. We start shooting in a month and I haven’t found her yet!”

Dylan jammed his hands into the front pockets of his tailored slacks. He understood why Ian was so driven to create a perfect book. He understood his focus, and even his foul mood. Ian felt he was on the brink of losing everything that he loved, and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it. No one could.

“What I need,” Ian continued under his breath as he stared down onto the street below, “is a woman who’s fearless, edgy, unique...someone with a personality. Not some California bleached-blond bimbo, or an Orphan Annie waif who needs a couple good meals. I want a woman who isn’t afraid to be different. I want...” He paused for a moment as his eyes settled on a black motorcycle parked illegally and facing the wrong direction on Sixth Street. He could tell that the woman swinging her leg over the back of the bike was tall and lean. His heart began to quicken as he leaned forward and turned his head slightly to the left so he could focus in on her with his stronger eye. The minute she pulled off her helmet, he had a visceral response that felt like a punch in the gut.

“Her.”

“What?” Dylan asked.

“Her,” Ian repeated loudly. “Down there. I want her.”

* * *

“Mom. Mom! Will you come up for air, please? What’s the problem?”

“I just saw the pictures on your Facebook page, Jordan! What have you done to your beautiful hair?”

“Cut it.”

“I can see that. What did you do to the color?” Barbara Brand’s voice had a shrill quality that made Jordan move the phone away from her ear for a minute.

“I changed it,” she said nonchalantly when she brought the phone closer again.

“Jordan Carol, save your witticisms for your friends. Obviously I can see that you’ve changed the color from the pictures!”

“Mom.” Jordan pushed on the door to leave the tattoo parlor; she smiled and winked at Chappy, who was tattooing a navy-themed design on a young man’s arm. “If you’re going to keep on freaking out every time I post a picture, I’m afraid we won’t be able to be Facebook friends anymore.”

Barbara ignored her daughter’s teasing remark. “Your hair was so naturally beautiful, Jordan. Do you know how many women would pay good money to have hair like that? And look what you’ve gone and done. You’ve ruined it!”

“Mom. It’s hair dye. It’s not permanent.”

“Not permanent?”

“Okay, let me rephrase that...it’s not forever.”

“Your father thinks that it looks like a clown exploded on your head!”

“Uh...wow! I can’t believe Dad said that! I’m not going to tell Amaya. She can be very sensitive about her work. It wasn’t easy for her to get just the right blend of fire engine red, magenta madness and tangerine bliss.”

“Amaya? Amaya did that? She isn’t a hairstylist!”

“True,” Jordan said of her roommate. “But she is a trained ice sculptor, among other things. We figured they were related disciplines.” Jordan laughed as she stepped out onto the sidewalk.

After a short pause, Barbara added, “And here your dad went to all that trouble to get you an interview with the head of the art department at Montana State so you can finally finish your master’s degree. What in the world are they going to think of you with that hair?”

Jordan stopped in her tracks and looked up at the sky in frustration. “Oh, my God, Mom! We’ve already discussed this like a thousand times! I am not...and I repeat...I am not moving to the middle of nowhere Bozeman, Montana. I’d rather die a slow and painful death!”

“What’s wrong with Bozeman? It’s a college town!” Barbara seemed genuinely surprised. “And you can paint anywhere after all. What’s more inspiring than Montana in spring?”

“Mom. I have my first gallery show coming up. Do you know how insane it is that a gallery is actually willing to sponsor an unknown artist?” When her mother didn’t respond, Jordan added, “Mom. I love you. But you’ve gotta accept that I’m not moving back to Montana.”