Page 3

My fingers tremble as I hang the photo to dry. Chemicals sting my skin, but I welcome the bite. It’s grounding. More realistic than the glossy lies dangling from the line.

Because that’s all I capture: Lies.

Pictures don’t hold truth. They don’t encompass the way a voice cracks on a certain name, the weight of a hand slipping from yours, the way “goodbye” can linger in the air long after the person vanishes. A picture can’t hold a heartbeat.

It can’t hold the people inside.

I stare at the row of drying prints, my pulse a steady drumbeat in my ears as my mother’s face stares back from dozens of different angles. The images are beautiful, haunting even. Perfect.

And they mean absolutely nothing.

My phone buzzes on the shelf, interrupting the music. I wipe my hands on stained jeans and swipe to answer the call, already knowing who’s on the other line. “I’m almost done.”

A scoff reaches my ears. “You’ve been in there for hours. Shit’s all loaded up, we gotta hit the road.”

“Five more minutes.” I remove the next photo, hardly registering the burn. By this point, I’m surprised I even have fingerprints left.

“If you aren’t out here in five seconds, I’m coming in there and ruining all your film. Swear to fuck.”

The line goes dead, and my music resumes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I let out a slow exhale through my nose.

Three months. Ten different cities. A chance to get out of Utah and all the haunting memories as dead as the pictures hanging on my dry line.

Maybe the person who comes back will have a different face. A different name. A different life.

Someone knocks at the door, interrupting my thoughts. “Three, two, one. Now you’re done.”

A second voice joins in with a chuckle. “You should have been a poet, cariño. That was beautiful.”

“I’m fucking Shakespeare.”

“Nasty, fool! He’s old as shit.”

“Shut the fuck up. And he’s not old, he’s dead.”

“That makes it worse.”

Rolling my eyes, I get to my feet and groan, knees popping as I stretch my back. Not sure how long I’ve been hunched over in here, but I revel in the ache as I yank a flannel off a hanger and throw it over my sports bra, leaving it unbuttoned. Developing film always makes me sore, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I snatch my camera on the way out, making sure my blackout curtain is in place. When I fling open the door, my two best friends are waiting for me on the other side.

Taylor and Christian stand with their arms crossed, both wearing matching scowls in their Twins of Terror t-shirts.

“Took you long enough,” Tay grumbles, purple highlights peeking through his black hair when he runs a hand through it. “Are you even packed?”

“Uh… yes?” I side-step to block the empty suitcase sitting on my messy bed and raise my camera. “Pre-tour selfies. Smile, boys!”

Christian grins wide, dark brown hair falling around his shoulders as he flexes his muscles, but Tay ruins the photo by walking in front of the lens. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

He starts opening my dresser drawers, throwing whatever he can find into my suitcase without looking. I raise an eyebrow at Christian in question. “What crawled up his ass and died?”

“Not his boyfriend,” Christian smirks. “That’s why he’s sulking.”

Taylor flips him off before moving into my bathroom after nearly emptying my underwear drawer. “It’s a twenty-five-hour drive from here to Nashville. One whole day before I get to see Huck again and yes, I plan on being everyone’s problem until that happens.”

Objects crash to the floor, and he returns with his arms full of the most useless shit he could find.

“Really?” I scoff. “My Q-tip jar? And what do you plan on doing with the soap dish?”