Re-Production

By: Rea Frey

“What does that even mean?”

Jake looked at his girlfriend. After five years, she’d become a stranger. He was tired of always explaining himself. “It means whatever you want it to mean. I’m just… I’m tired, Kate. I am so tired.”

She scoffed. “Of what? Going to work and being surrounded by beautiful women? Of taking off your clothes and trying to look brooding? Yeah, tough life. Real tough life there, buddy.” She dumped her coffee cup in the sink. “Maybe you should stay somewhere else tonight, Jake. I need to think.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He glanced at the clock. He had thirty minutes to get ready for his photo shoot. He washed his face and brushed his teeth. He could hear Kate in the next room, banging things around. He knew it was over; he’d known it ever since the miscarriage, and yet he couldn’t make himself leave her. He’d read about things like this, that traumas either made you closer or ripped you apart. In their case, it had destroyed them. She was so angry about everything: the way he slept, the way he draped an arm over her at night, his table manners, what he made for breakfast, the shoes he wore, the predictability of his job, that he was tied up on weekends. He couldn’t imagine how hard the reality of this break-up would be, to divide their things, to go through the photographs and dishes. What did you even do with the mementos of a life together?

He left the apartment, and the wind tugged at his skin. A light snow had begun, and the dusting looked like diamonds. When had he stopped noticing the beauty everywhere? Kate used to point out little details to him, things he never would have noticed. He would miss the way they were in the beginning, how positive and beautiful everything had once been. He drove his boots through the snow and took a deep, icy breath. The photographer’s studio was just five blocks north. He buzzed, and Brian greeted him at the door, a Nikon strapped around his neck.

“Ready?”

He nodded. The shoot was for Brian’s book he was presenting to Gucci. They stepped past sidewalks and into an alley. Brian’s crew gathered around him with their lights and equipment. Jake hopped up and down a few times, then unbuttoned the jacket. He wore only a tank top, despite the one-degree temperature. He knotted his scarf as Brigid, the makeup artist, blotted his face.

“Don’t need blush I see,” she joked.

He looked at her, at the tattoos on her arms and the full mouth he’d never really studied before. He felt the stirrings of desire and cleared his throat. He propped himself against the cold brick of the alley wall and thrust his hands, ungloved, into the pockets of his Gucci jeans. He jutted his chin and parted his lips. Was Kate right? Was this a joke, this career? Manipulating his face, standing in some alley in the middle of January? Did he have goals beyond this? She was a lawyer. He’d wanted to be a pilot, but had gotten scouted at a bar instead. He’d gone with modeling because the money had seemed easy, and success was immediate.

With every click of the shutter, he went deeper in thought. He offered Brian his profile and flexed his muscles, which were beginning to cramp in the cold. He exhaled. A cloud of thick, white breath blurred the space in front of him.

“That’s great, just like that,” Brian murmured.

Jake shifted again and pressed his palms against the frosted bars of a window. He took a few more crouched by a dumpster. Then he promptly went home and broke up with Kate.

She slapped him, once, and didn’t say another word. They danced around each other for days, as he packed his belongings. Just before he left his apartment for the last time, Brian called. “You booked the job, kid,” he said. “Gucci saw the shots and went crazy. You’re going to be the face of their new jeans campaign.”

Jake swallowed. “That’s great, Brian. That’s great.” He hung up and trudged through the snow, which had continued to fall the entire week and had given everything a chalky silence. He closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. When he opened them, he saw Kate running towards him. Her face was wild, manic. Her arms were bare, and her cheeks were patchy from tears. He braced himself, trying to come up with something to say that would make her see this breakup was the right thing for both of them. That he was really going. That he’d already gone.

“What are you doing out here without a coat?” He resisted the urge to give her his jacket.

She opened her mouth, the words getting caught somewhere in the wind. She looked vulnerable, something he hadn’t seen in so long. In that moment, he felt a pang for all they’d lost and all that would never return.

“Jake.” She said his name so softly he thought he’d imagined it.

He wanted to say her name, but held the single syllable in his mouth. He knew if he said her name, he would soften, and mentally, he was already done. “What is it?” he asked.

“Jake, I…” her words trailed off, and he felt a glimmer of impatience.

“I’m pregnant,” she said.