He looked unconvinced but apparently decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. He scratched his chest, right next to his armpit, his shirt bunching up beneath his fingers. “You still thinking about joining me on a shoot?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow? Taking Marisol downtown. You said you wanted to go on an urban shoot, yes?”

No. I didn’t particularly want to go on any shoot, urban or ocean or out in the middle of a fucking cow field. I didn’t have time to be “trying to find myself” in Dad’s footsteps. Not to mention, I didn’t want anything to do with him. Just looking at him made my heart ache.

But there was only one way to get him off my back.

“Yep. I’ll be ready.”

THE WORST THING about being a photographer is that you’re a slave to the light. Photographers could work for themselves all they wanted, but that didn’t mean they could mosey on out for a shoot anytime they felt like it. They had to be up before the sun, so they could get their things together, meet their model, find the perfect spot, and set up before the sun got to its best position in the sky.

I hated being up early for any reason, but especially for standing around while my dad fiddled with lenses and Marisol paced in stilettos with one arm pressed into her concave gut while her other hand held cigarette after chain-smoked cigarette.

Models weren’t always as healthy as they looked.

Every so often, Dad would order me to kick some rocks away from a doorway or hold the reflector disc higher, no, not that high, a little lower, no, you’ve gone too low. You know what? You should be standing on the other side of her. . . .

Photography was some mind-numbing shit.

After what seemed like a lifetime, but had only been about four hours, and a miserably few photos, my stomach started growling.

“Can I get a coffee or something?” I asked.

“Good idea,” Marisol said. “I swear I’m going to pass out if you have me jump in the air one more time, Milo.”

“We’re just getting something done,” Dad said, not even bothering to look up from behind the camera, which he’d spent the past twenty minutes painstakingly screwing onto a tripod and adjusting to whatever constituted the perfect height. “If we stop now, we’ll lose the good light.”

Jesus. The light.

Marisol cocked her hip to one side, her hand on it, and pouted, actually whimpering a little. Dad responded by snapping a picture. She probably looked amazing in it. Life was unfair that way.

“How about I’ll get something for everyone and bring it back?” I asked. “I’ll get sandwiches.”

“Bread. I don’t eat white food,” Marisol said at the same time that Dad barked, “Don’t move! You’re in perfect position!”