The Photographer (Ignazio Boschetto Fanfiction)

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

          I stirred and gradually came to my senses, slowly removing my arm from where it was draped over my eyes to peer around the room. I lay draped over the couch into the hotel room, my head on a pillow against one arm, and my feet, still inside my red high-tops, propped up on the other. It was cool inside the room and very bright, and the early sounds of the morning came in from the closed back door: birds chirping, cars honking, people chatting distantly as they moved outside and inside the hotel. My headphones had slipped off and were lying against my side, and the phone was stuffed into the couch cushions. I reached out and took it out, looking at it and remembering my late vigil of Il Volo music. I closed my fingers around it and pushed myself up, taking my feet from the arm of the couch and sitting up. I looked down at the phone in my hands as I reflected on the night before, remembering my new promise to give my best to Il Volo.

          “I am Tamzin Montgomery, Il Volo’s photographer,” I said softly, and nodded in approval.

          I thought about what that meant for my landscape photography passion, and I decided that I would still take pictures in every place we traveled to, as provisions for the end of my time with Il Volo. I couldn’t be a photographer for National Geographic now, but I wouldn’t forget that one day I would be. But I now had to recognize the importance of my current job, and give it the work it was due.

          I stood up and walked to the window, pulling back the curtain to peer outside. It was very bright, and I looked at the hotel room’s clock and found that it was past nine. My long night had made me sleep late into the morning. I looked back out the window and saw after a moment Ignazio sitting on the porch steps in front of his room, quietly observing the country stretched out in front of him.

          I lingered on the sight of him, and thought about my previous prejudices against him. I felt as though I should feel remorseful, but in the moment I felt more cautious than penitent. I studied him, peering out the window with new consideration. His brown eyes were bright and sincere as he gazed into the distance, and there was a faint smile on his lips. His hair was long and wavy and soft-looking, and as I watched he reached up and ran his hand through it. His eyebrows were dark and thick, above eyes surrounded by slight, handsome shadows and dark lashes. He was broad-shouldered and tall, but had a gentle appearance and a sweet face.

          I observed him and felt a sudden compulsion to speak with him, to make my new promise apparent to him as though to make up for our past encounters.

          I let the curtain fall over the window and moved to the door, wrapping my hand around the cold knob for a moment before I lifted my chin and pushed the door open.

          Ignazio turned and looked up at me as I stepped onto the porch and proclaimed, “I need to talk to you!”

          I faltered when he smiled brightly and said in his Italian accent, “Of course, Tamzin! Come and sit.”

          He patted the space beside him on the porch, and I hesitated before closing the door and striding over, lowering myself cautiously down beside him and putting my red-high topped feet on the step next to his large blue tennis shoes.

          He smiled expectantly at me, making me look immediately away, realizing I hadn’t thought about what I was going to say. I stared instead at my shoes and waited for him to say something. He didn’t press me, and we sat quietly side by side on the porch.

          “What kind of music do you sing, again?” I eventually asked.

          “Operatic pop.”