In the midst of the laughter, in the warm haze of feeling wanted and having found a true friend in Tally, I almost miss it—how Shannon’s eyes are on me, how she’s lingering just at the edge of my vision. Her presence is a silent reminder of my secret, a secret that could shatter this fragile sense of belonging. My smile falters for a moment, wondering,would Tally still want me so close if she knew?
THIRTY-EIGHT
The room is cloakedin darkness as I lay on my bed, the weight of my demons pressing down on me. Another sleepless night and no way out since I promised myself I’d quit drinking while Sloan still occupies our guest room.
Our last late-night encounter nearly went off the rails, and I can’t afford to let that happen again. I need to keep a clear head. Yet here I am, spiraling again, memories of blonde hair swimming in blood-red water trying to push into my conscience, guilt threatening to consume me.
I’m not strong enough for this.
The whiskey is calling to me from downstairs like a siren’s song. It is the only thing that seems to get me through these tormenting nights.
Drink until I can’t think.
Unable to take it anymore, I finally give in, dragging myself out of bed and walking down the creaky staircase. As I head toward the kitchen, a strange sight catches my eye—an eerie red light seeping from under Lio’s bathroom door.
It’s after midnight, and Lio is fast asleep. I just checked an hour ago. Leaving only…
Her.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk down the hallway to stand in front of the door, but it’s silent inside. So I push the door open quietly.
“No! Fuck!” Sloan whisper-shouts at me, her eyes wide with irritation as she pulls me into the small bathroom and closes the door quickly behind me. “Damn it, North!” she curses.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I grumble, nearly pressed against her in the small bathroom, with only red light filling it. My gaze wanders around the cramped space, taking in the scene before me.
Pictures are clamped on a laundry wire strung across the bathroom, some hanging just over my head, carefully secured over a bucket, the sink, and the shower. It’s a makeshift darkroom of sorts, and I can’t help but be intrigued.
This is… different.
“I wanted to process some pictures I took of Tally and Tim while they were painting the nursery as a present for her baby shower,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let’s just hope they aren’t ruined now.”
I furrow my brows. “I don’t know much about photography, but I spent enough time with Saylor to know that underdeveloped pictures would have to be exposed to light to get ruined. The hallway was dark when I opened the door.”
Why did I just mention Saylor?
I don’t remember the last time I said his name out loud.
The past suddenly feels as present as the red light washing over us.
Saylor would revel in this makeshift darkroom, the tangibility of film, the magic of an image appearing from nothing. But that was his world, not mine. And yet, here I am, staring at the dangling photographs, and it’s like I’m seeing through his eyes.
I lean back against the cool tiles. There is a tightness in my chest, an ache that I’ve kept at bay with silence, and now it threatens to spill over. Glancing at Sloan, the catalyst to this unwelcome resurrection of memories, I feel a frown creasing my brow, the internal conflict surely written all over my face.
My hands curl into fists, an unconscious defense against the surge of emotions. A part of me wants to blame Sloan for this slip in my armor, for the rawness scraping at my insides. It’s irrational, but it is there, a simmering resentment that she has unearthed something I’ve worked so hard to bury.
“Fine, maybe you haven’t ruined them. But I’m not going to risk it, so you better get comfortable for the next fifteen minutes. You’re not leaving before they are fully developed.”
Fuck me.
The stillness of the cramped bathroom is full of tension and the acrid scent of developer fluid. Sloan’s words hang in the red-lit air between us, a challenge as much as a directive. “Fine,” I relent, letting out a breath that I hope sounds steadier than I feel.
Trapped in this confined space, every accidental touch sends a jolt through me. Our arms brush, and a ripple of something—annoyance, anticipation—surges through me.
I start to fidget, a restlessness taking hold, and so does she. The silence stretches, taut as the wire above us. I break it, attempting to engage her in conversation. “So, you enjoy photography?” The words feel clumsy in my mouth, but anything to distract from the too-close warmth of her and lingering thoughts of Saylor.
Her laugh echoes slightly, and it scrapes against my nerves. “As if you’d care,” she says, a shadow of a smile in her voice that doesn’t reach the tense line of her shoulders.
“Not particularly,” I admit, “but we have fifteen minutes to kill.” It’s a poor attempt at nonchalance, and her breath against my neck belies the distance I’m trying to maintain.
