Page 11 of Just My Style
“A hand model,” I correct. “I’m allowed to eat as much as I like. Hands are the one body part that the fashion industry frowns upon being too thin. I’m frequently hired to be the “hands” for models and movie stars.”
His forehead crinkles. “How can you be someone else’s hands?”
I chuckle. “By standing behind them and holding your hands at their face level, usually.”
“Strange,” he says. “You do this a lot?”
“Yep,” I admit. “I could tell you the A-listers I’ve worked with… but then I’d have to kill you.”
We chat about modeling for a bit before the conversation turns to our favorite spots in New York. It just so happens that we have the same taste in most things.
“It’s nice having another New Yorker to talk to,” he says. “Margo’s here, but she’s always busy with work and her family, and no one else around here really understands Manhattan.”
“You miss it?” I ask sympathetically.
“So much,” he says, gazing at the ocean. “It’s beautiful here, of course, and there are lots of wonderful people, but I miss the challenge of being a surgeon. And, if I’m honest, I miss the prestige of being a surgeon, too. I also miss dining at Michelin-rated restaurants, seeing new Broadway musicals and plays before the rest of the world hears about them, and popping into the Museum of Modern Art whenever I want.”
I hold my hand over my heart. “Oh, the MOMA. Whenever hand modeling got tough and I started to regret leaving art behind, I’d go there.”
“I’d love to take Jared someday, but he doesn’t seem to have any interest. He hates me even more than you do.”
“I don’t hate you, and I doubt Jared does, either. He’s just stubborn.”
“That’s my hope. I keep trying to wear him down, but—” His face breaks into a grin and he points toward the sky. “Here come’s Hank Heron!”
Sure enough, a great blue heron flies toward us, landing a few feet away.
“Whoa,” I exclaim. “He’s bigger than I expected.”
“He’s a magnificent bird,” Victor says. “That’s the one thing I know Jared and I agree on.”
“Then keep working with that,” I suggest.
Chapter 8
Victor
Cara and I have spent the past three mornings walking along the beach, snapping pictures for the scavenger hunt, and chatting about New York. It’s making me homesick, especially since I know she’ll be returning without me in a few more days.
She sighs, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing. “What’s up?” I ask.
“We only have one thing left to find on our beach scavenger hunt… and then we have to do a bike tour of the town. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m really not comfortable on a bike.”
I chuckle. “Maybe we can rent a tandem bike, and I can do all the work?”
“I’d probably just knock us both over.”
“What’s left on our scavenger hunt list?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “A perfect seashell.”
“Why are you rolling your eyes?”
“Because it’s impossible. All the shells are broken.”
I grin at her. “Perfection is subjective. It doesn’t matter if the shell is broken. Just find the perfect one in this moment, right now.”
We pick up shells for the next ten minutes, inspecting them carefully.