And now it’s back, because she’s back.
I just don’t know what it means. If having her here is bringing us back to the way we used to be during that turbulent, soul-scarring, formative year, or that I’m foreseeing the way things will end between us…again.
“Anders?”
I look up from my desk to see Shay standing in the doorway, looking so fucking sweet and unsure at the same time that my dick immediately jumps to attention.
I clear my throat. “Come on in.”
She hesitates before she steps inside, and it’s then that I notice she’s holding two bottles of beer. Says a lot about how much her beauty steals my attention when I don’t even notice the alcohol in her hands.
“Astrid told me to drink all her leftover beer,” Shay says. “I figured you could use one. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
She stops beside me, her eyes drifting over the closed journal, the pencil in my hand. I always write in pencil. I hate the permanency of ink. My thoughts are as fluid as the sea, no use making them last. I figure that’s what tattoos are for.
“You’re not,” I tell her, offering a smile.
She hands me the beer, our fingers brushing. My heart glows electric, though I sense a bit of sadness in Shay’s demeanor.
“Miss them already?” I ask her, meaning Astrid and Lise. I think Shay was fairly upset about their departure. She really seemed to hit it off with my sisters, Astrid especially, and there were a lot of hugs before Lise’s friend drove them into Trondheim.
Honestly, I thought maybe Shay would have gone with them, but she’s still here. Now, with the buffer of my sisters gone, it feels like the house is just a little smaller, and the two of us are a little closer.
“A bit,” she says. “But you’re not bad company.”
I’ll take that as a win.
“So what did you want to do tonight?” I ask her, after a sip of beer. “I know that Astrid was usually in charge of planning the nightly festivities.”
Shay laughs and sits on the edge of my bed, a dangerous sight.
“This is the nightly festivity,” she says, raising her beer in show.
I twist in my chair to face her properly, taking my time to study her face. She’s nervous, just a little. She still bites her lip when she’s anxious, tries to push her bangs behind her ears to no avail. She’s squirming a little under my gaze, just like she used to. But back then I liked that I made her uncomfortable. I wanted a reaction out of her, even if it was negative. Something that let me know that she saw me for all that I was, the good and the bad, even though I felt there was very little good left.
Now, I just want to make the right impression. To make her smile, laugh, to see those eyes dance, knowing that I’m giving her an elusive taste of happiness.
But, as usual, I’m reading too much into things, forever locked in my own head.
I get up and stride over to her, then drop to my knees. She looks at me in surprise until I reach under my bed and pull out a low container. While most of my journals are in shoeboxes, this is where my cameras live, as well as little odds and ends that have caught my eye over the years.
“What’s all that?” she asks, leaning forward.
“Where my cameras sleep,” I tell her. I pick up a vintage Pentax, the same one I used back in high school. I hold it out for her, and she takes it from me. “Look familiar?”
“No way,” she says, turning it over in her hands. She pops the lens cap off and looks through the viewfinder. “You still have this.”
I stare directly into the camera, hoping she likes what she sees. “Of course.”
She lowers it after a moment and gives me a pensive look. “You know, I was so in awe of you back then. Your art, what you were able to create.”
I shrug, turning my attention back to the bin, rummaging for more things to show her. “Just a punk ass kid,” I tell her. “I’d hardly call it art.” To prove my point, I grab a stack of large black-and-white prints and hand them to her. “Try taking a look now, from a new perspective. You’ll see they’re garbage.”
She puts the camera down beside her and starts flipping through the photos. Her brows raise, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Anders.”
She flips the photograph over. It’s one of her, sitting on the corner of her bed in her bedroom, much in the same way she’s sitting right now, with one leg tucked up under her. In the photo her hair hangs in her face in the way she used to do, pretending to be that creepy girl from The Ring, but there’s a slice of her face visible. Round cheek, wide innocent eye, a coy smile. That part is in focus while everything else is a little blurred.
“I can’t believe you have this still,” she says, turning it back over and marveling at it. “My bedroom. Oh, that tank top. I loved that tank top.” She looks at me. “What do you mean this isn’t art?”
“If it’s art, it’s only because the subject is,” I tell her, trying to find the strap for the camera. “Otherwise, it’s too dull. You’re the only thing saving it. It’s grainy, the contrast is low, too monotonous. I didn’t know anything. Thought I knew everything.”
I can feel her eyes on me, her gaze burning and inquisitive,
