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We’ve been on the ferry heading up the fjord for almost an hour, getting closer to our stop, the village of Geiranger at the end, and I haven’t put my phone or camera down for a second. At first, I thought shooting on film was going to be annoying—there are countless rolls of undeveloped film in my backpack—but now I get why Anders is still so fond of it. There is so much mystery now in a world where mystery is in short supply. Instead of giving you the image right away, an image that can easily be deleted, that takes up no space, it makes you wait. It makes you practice patience. It makes you stop and take note of everything. The light, the air, the movement, the depth. It makes you really pay attention before you click the shutter. It’s like it’s not only capturing the memories, but creating memories at the same time.
Now, as I lift up the camera and aim it toward the end of the fjord, where the mountains turn a corner and another ferry comes out from around the wall of rock, looking miniature in comparison, I’m know that when I later look at the photo I’ve taken, I’m going to remember being here with Anders, his warm, steady body at my back, the pine-scent of his body wash, the smell of the fresh glacial water coming off the fjord. The warm sun on my face. I’ll feel the way he’s holding me, how it makes me feel like he’ll never let me go, even though the look in his eyes sometimes says otherwise.
Right now though, his eyes are telling me that I’m his.
That’s all I need to be, for this second anyway.
And then what?
But I ignore that. I ignore that voice like I’ve been ignoring it all this time. We both didn’t want any complications. We both knew this thing, this new us, had an expiration date. There’s no point fighting it, no matter how I feel about him.
“There’s the town,” he tells me, voice smooth like whisky on the rocks now, and I watch as the ferry rounds the corner and the tiny town appears, most of it vertical, buildings dotted along a steep slope that goes up and up, switchbacks acting as a seam.
It’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning. And naturally I’m back to taking a million more pictures.
Anders booked a hotel right at the top of the mountain, so as soon as the ferry docks and we’re in the car, we’re zipping up through the switchbacks, climbing until my ears’ pop, until we reach this quaint hotel that’s located so close to the mountain road that you’d swear cars are going to pass right through the patio.
We go up to our room and, though it’s small, it has this window that looks out onto the whole village and fjord, probably the best singular view in the whole damn place. I’m so used to having to book all my own accommodations when I travel, that having Anders take the reins has not only been a relief but a pleasant surprise with each and every place we stay at. He’s constantly wowing me, doing whatever he can to make sure the trip is the best it can be.
Honestly though, all I need is him. We could have stayed behind in Todalen for all I cared. Yeah, I wanted to see Norway and I’m grateful that he’s been my tour guide, but the most beautiful, breathtaking attraction is him. It’s knowing we have history, as tumultuous as it is, knowing that he gets me, that he understands where I’m coming from. It’s that poet’s soul that comes to surface every now and then, so close I can almost hold it in my hands. I just need to dig through a few more layers, find the version of himself he keeps hiding, let me see it for myself.
“This is gorgeous, Anders,” I say to him, taking a picture of the window frame and the stunning view behind it. “You never stop impressing me.”
“And I’ll never stop wanting to impress you,” he says. There’s a wistfulness to his voice that makes my heart do summersaults.
I turn around to face him, surprised to see a wash of sadness on his brow.
“You know you don’t have to do much to impress me,” I tell him, my voice getting choked with my own buried feelings that are suddenly rising to the surface. “Just being here with me is enough. Just…staying with me. It’s enough.”
I’m giving him a little, hoping he’ll take it.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, the corner of his full mouth lifting just a bit.
“Wish I could stay with you,” he says.
And he says it so fucking simply that it takes a moment to register. A moment before it kicks me right in the guts.
