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I asked her what her real color was yesterday, and while I’m certain there’s a spectrum of shades, she seems to be showing me. Silence is my best bet here. The burbling fountains and the clink-clank of my Zippo fill the quiet as I wait.
Snick. Flick. Flame.
Give me more, Ace.
She doesn’t disappoint. “We have this saying between us. If you’re going nowhere, then I’m coming with you. It’s funny when you think about it. Ivy feared her life would amount to nothing, and now, she’s achieved more at twenty-four than most people do in a lifetime—in every area. Most of it without me.”
Ahh. Is that what’s bugging her? I get that. It made me jealous as fuck when Wells hung out with Tom even though I knew he needed him. Seeing how happy andwell-adjusted Ivy is with her husband is one thing, but witnessing it with the rest of us probably hurts like hell.
“None of it was without you,” I interject, entranced by the beauty beyond my billowing flame. “Evenlast year, she texted all the time. I know we kept that from you, but she never stopped needing you. She talked about you to us and Rena and her mom. She missed you so much. And during her trial, we were all so grateful you were with her because you made her stronger. What she has with us can’t ever replace that.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, brown eyes brimming with tears as she utters a quick, “Thanks.”
“What’s with the album?” I ask, noticing a leather-bound book resting on a chair.
“Portfolio.” Her chattiness has apparently ceased.
“Of?” I press, swigging my beer.
“My favorite shots. Like the greatest hits of my photographs.”
Jumping up, I shove my Zippo into my pocket, amble over to the chair, swipe the album, and return to the chaise behind her. It’s clear as soon as I flip it open that she’s talented. More obvious with every picture. And on deeper inspection, my pulse picks up pace, thumping away in my throat and chest and stomach.
This is Celeste.
I’d tell her that, but I don’t want to risk her shutting down when she realizes all she’s unveiling. So, I try another route. “Why do you have so many pictures of clocks?”
The night air is graced with the first melodies of her whimsical laughter—fucking glorious.
“Lots of reasons. They’re beautiful. A whisper of history. Timeless.” She swishes her cabernet with a sigh. “And they remind me of Ivy. It started as something silly when I first got my camera. She loses time, so I gave it back to her. Then, I got hooked on the intricacies and architecture.”
“I can see that. They’re captivating, not that I’ve ever thought that before tonight.” It’s the way she depicts them that’s fascinating, but that can be said about all the images in my lap. “Your other pictures are all a little sad.” Like she’s memorizing the darkest, most hidden parts of life—the parts most can’t bear to look at.
She shrugs. “That’s how most people see them.”
“And you don’t?” I gesture to the one before me even though she’s still leering at the sky. “This one is of dirty, hungry kids. Something out ofNational Geographic.”
She peeks, so I hold it up to her. “I took that this past fall, shadowing a photojournalist in a little village in Albania. And, of course, I see the sadness. It’s just not all I see. People view brokenness as the ending, but they’re wrong. It’s the beginning. The root. The reason.”
She’s deeper than I expected, even with the glimpses she’s revealed before. But like last night, as she cracks herself open for me, one commonality shines through. Pain. And respect for it.
“You think most of who we are is rooted in pain?” I probe, desperate for every goddamn outlook she holds.
She wiggles her head back and forth like she’s considering but keeps her beautiful face from view. “I’m not saying good things don’t shape us. They do. But devastation is far more formative. Metal can only be bent and molded when immersed in a fire. People are similar.”
Her feet kick in the water, and she leans back on one hand. Slightly less detached than before. “Like with Ivy, it took losing everything she thought she was to get her to rise. She’d been raised by the two most amazing humans, afforded luxuries and love and experiences, but it was Tom’s stroke, the wedge with her mom, the trauma of believing you’d died and that she’d lost Wells and the guys that truly forced her to become who she was always meant to be.”
Makes sense. The guys and I have all been fueled by the cruelty and hardships of our beginnings.
“So, what was yours?” I ask, still sifting through the fragments of Celeste in her portfolio. “If you had a photo of it, what would be in it?”
No hesitation. “Dusty evening air. A humid blanket, tempered by an early summer breeze. The smell of exhaust and stale caramel corn. Bright white lights, spotting your vision with halos. Fast cars and the roar of a beer-drinking crowd. A whirlwind of excitement for a sixteen-year-old girl.” She sucks in a sharp inhale, her hand tapping against her quivering lips. “My heart and innocence packed into a Dodge Viper, painted in a shimmery adrenaline-red with wide black stripes, racing for another win.” She refills her glass from the wine bottle, the crimson liquid sloshing up the sides of the goblet. “And exploding into flames before the finish line.”
That’s a vividly gut-wrenching image. Her whole vibe is loose, solemn, and poetic tonight. I’m not sure if that’s the wine or the wallowing.
Either way, it’s hard to know how to respond, but it comes to me when I stumble onto the next picture—two guys, mid-twenties, in front of the car she described. The scene she depicted blooms to life before my eyes. “Looks a lot like this photo right here.”
She lifts her glass into the air. “What do you know?”
