I wanted to kiss him in front of all those people. My heart swelled with pride. But Valencia called him up to the podium then. She clung to him and kissed his cheeks three times and then went in for his lips. Jack turned his head at the last moment, giving her his cheek again, and extricated himself from her hold to go speak.
I really wanted to see what he had to say for himself, how he told the rest of his story that he’d always kept quiet around his friends. But he never did.
“The notion of true love dominates modern culture,” he said, his brown eyes glinting in the light, but his tone perfectly polished. “We think the highest form of love is between two people.” He glanced at me, briefly, to devastating effect. I was left nearly gasping in my seat, but he went on, his eyes sliding away to the rest of the audience. “And there’s no doubt that romantic love is soul stirring and life changing, but I have a belief that the highest form of love we can have is love for humanity, for the ties between us . . . the understanding that, at heart, we are all linked. We are all one. And the most important duty of art is, I believe, to connect us all, person to person. To help us understand each other, despite, or maybe because, of our differences.”
I was stunned by his words. He touched me on a level I’d never been touched before. It wasn’t just because he was handsome, nor was it because I was attracted to him. The sex was great but it was more. I felt connected to him on a soul level, as if even our antagonism for years was part of the story of us, and we were, actually, created to be lovers, created to love each other despite our fears or traumas or struggles. We were meant to be. Fated.
I yearned to hear more of his story as I realized that all these years he had hidden himself from me, from everyone. I nearly sobbed thinking that I had been the one to make him hide, with my anger at him for really no reason at all. I saw now.
But, instead of telling me more about himself so I could eavesdrop on his professional life, he spoke no more of himself or his philosophy.
“But this isn’t about me,” he said. “This is about them.” A picture of two young lovers wrapped in each other's arms under an overpass decorated with graffiti stunned me. It was so beautiful I nearly cried. The colors were intense, but also, the grittiness of the setting was contrasted by the expressions on their faces of sublime joy and love, and the smooth brown curves of their arms as they embraced. Then, he told us their story. Of their struggles at home, the lack of acceptance, their hopes and dreams, their tragedies and triumphs. He named them. He told us about the LGBT youth center he’d started in their city, so no other young people would be left with nowhere to go.
Then, the photo changed to a series in Canada among the indigenous people there and their struggle to maintain their traditions in the face of a changing world. The breathtaking images of ice and sea and the fight to eke out a life worth living, and the love seen in their families, generation upon generation. And then, we saw a group of Berliners whose lives revolved around music and performance. Then, he took us to the Amazon rainforest, then Haiti, then Hong Kong. In each place, he explored the world of love that the people lived in and told us their stories. I fell in love with each person he showed us, each tale told. And him.
He never once talked about himself. I sat there, stunned. Stunned with how beautiful Jack was, not on the outside, although he was that, but rather, who he was on the inside. His soul glowed like the sun and I was dazzled.
“He’s a lot to take in, isn’t he?” A girl next to me said, her eyes on Jack on the stage. She looked like she was carved out of marble, with her pale skin, perfect bone structure, and her red hair pulled back into a sculpted chignon. Her ivory dress was simple and perfectly elegant.
I swallowed and nodded. “He’s beautiful.” I shook my head. “I mean, his work is beautiful.”
She laughed. “Both are correct. Whoever would have believed the jackass he was as a young man would mature into this.”
I turned to face her. “You knew him when he was younger?”
She nodded. “I did. He’s kind of a family friend, in a way. Oh, I wasn’t close, but I was in their sphere of influence. I met you once, too. But you probably don’t remember.”
“What? When? I don’t forget people.”
“Oh, it wasn’t like that. It was at a wedding. I was a server. You were a guest. It was a very small wedding though. He was there and he was terrible to you.”
My mouth dropped open. “You were the waitress at Jack and April’s mom’s wedding. Your mom was the caterer.”
She nodded. “I was putting myself through law school. Birdie Macallister. I work for the environmental law firm who is partially funding his award. That’s why I’m here now. I don’t have reason to be, but I’m very proud of him.”
“Me, too.”
“You also seem to have made your peace with Jack. I seem to remember the two of you fighting like cats and dogs.”
I took a ragged breath in, and it all came out of me in a rush. “I’m in love with him.”
Her turquoise eyes took on a glow. “I’m so happy for you.”
“No.” My heart was racing. “You shouldn’t be. We come from two different places. He’s, I mean, look at him. He’s perfect.”
She took my hand. “Have you looked at yourself recently? You’re pretty perfect yourself.”
I waved that away. “No, I’m just tall and skinny and can fit into designer dresses. I’m not fooled by that. I am so flawed. I’m bitter, angry, and aggressive, and sometimes I can be violent.”
“But I thought you were a yogi. Aren’t you supposed to be calm and spiritual?”
“Yes! I work so hard to control myself, but deep down, I want to fight everyone and push them all to do the right things . . . and I’ve been so mean to him. All this time, I've judged him. I don’t deserve him, and when this is over, we’re going to go back to being enemies. He’s going to hate me and . . . I don’t think I can handle that.”
“No, I’m sure that won’t happen.”
“Oh, it will. I’ve seen it so many times. Women fall in love, and then, something goes wrong in their relationships. The love breaks and it becomes toxic and painful, and the men turn on them and attack them.”
“But, surely, Jack won’t do that to you. He seems a genuinely good and caring person.”
That ragged breath drew through me then, and it sounded like a sob. “But what if I’m the one who turns toxic and attacks? I would hate to be that person, to hurt . . .” My eyes lingered over Jack as he finished up his speech about the people he’d photographed.
“The notion of true love dominates modern culture,” he said, speaking to the crowd who was as enraptured with him as I was, “and that is because love is what makes living worthwhile. It’s what connects us all. It’s what ties us together, each to the other on this beautiful, blue planet. We are,” his eyes met mine, “created to be lovers. Meant to be each others’ heart’s ease throughout all the pain and struggle of living. And that is what my photos are meant to convey. Thank you.”
The audience leapt to their feet and applauded him, while I staggered up from my chair, wiping my tears, cracked open and vulnerable, because of this man.