You, with a View

Time speeds up after my night with Theo. I forgot what it’s like to be busy. To have something to look forward to, even if it’s edged in anxiety that ebbs and flows when I think about picking up my camera. Or when I think about two weeks with Theo and the kaleidoscope of emotions he sends tumbling with a long look, that sharp tongue.

Thursday, the night before we’re set to leave, Theo texts me.

I have to do something tomorrow morning. We’re leaving at 3. My granddad is staying the night here. Can you find a ride?

No, I’m so sorry our plans have changed and we’re not leaving at ten after all, so that afternoon hike we’re doing in Yosemite? Not happening. And also by the way, Paul isn’t going to pick you up on his way down here anymore, will you be okay? Just a bunch of robot words formed into a demand.

I don’t respond, my blood boiling as I throw my entire underwear drawer into my suitcase. The truce Theo and I agreed upon is already crumbling—I’m going to strangle him when I get to his house. However the hell I get there.

Thomas is my saving grace; Sadie’s on a work trip all week, and he’s feeling emo, so he decides to stay in Glenlake for the night and offers to drive me to Theo’s the next day.

My parents throw me a bon voyage dinner, decking out the dining room with streamers and a gold letter banner that reads good luck. They ask me a million questions about the trip—where I’ll be stopping, what I’ll be doing—and my answers are an equal amount of truth and lies. Stomach-churning guilt makes it hard to eat or drink, but my family makes up for it. By the time ten rolls around, Thomas is sleeping off six beers while Mom and Dad reminisce about the county fair photography contest I won when I was twelve.

I go to bed feeling like a liar.

I wake up feeling like one, too, but as Thomas drives us into the city, I finesse it. It’s not a lie. It’s a secret, which is just a truth that hasn’t been told yet.

Thomas’s hangover and the afternoon work call he has to get home for make him practically kick me out of the car as we pull up to Theo’s. However, he manages to leave me with some parting words.

“Have a good time, kid,” he croaks out. “Sadie and I have a bet on whether you let Theo stick it in. I say day three, she’s got day ten, but I owe her some blue velvet couch she wants if you fall in love with him.”

“Fucking hell, Mas.”

“Have fun.” His smile fades and he pulls off his sunglasses. “For real. I hope you find whatever you’re going after. I’ll be following along with the story.”

I wave him off with a lump in my throat. He yells out the window, “Wrap it if you tap it!” and zooms off, cackling.

“Such a jackass—” I turn and my knees collapse. Theo’s standing on the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his joggers. “Jesus!”

He smirks. “ ‘Wrap it if you tap it’?”

“I couldn’t even explain if I wanted to,” I say. “Which I don’t.”

He looks down at his phone, illuminating the screen. “You’re late.”

It’s 3:09. “We were supposed to leave at ten, so let’s not start that conversation.”

I wait for the long overdue apology, or an explanation, but Theo merely steps forward and takes the handle of my suitcase, brushing my hand aside. I block my senses to the fresh soap scent of him, that hint of firewood and vanilla. It’s the sweetness that gets me most; Theo is all spice, no sugar. Strange that he wears it on his skin.

“Give me your other bags so I can pack up the car. We’re leaving in five.” Tension buzzes off him like electricity. Whatever he had to do this morning, it wasn’t relaxing.

I let my backpack and camera bag slide off my shoulders, and he takes those, too, then walks toward the minivan he rented for the trip, parked in front of his house. I sigh. I’m still recovering from my disappointment when he told me we weren’t taking the Bronco.

Paul walks out of the house just then. “Good afternoon, Noelle! Ready for our adventure?”

“I can’t wait.” It’s ninety-nine percent true. The one percent is watching me, his expression unreadable.

“Shall we start the trip with a letter?” Paul pulls a slip of paper from the pocket of his khakis. My heart reaches through my ribs for that piece of Gram.

He hands it over. “Now, this one is out of order, so you’ll have to forgive me. It seemed like the right one for our trip kickoff.”

“I’m sure it’s perfect.”

I gingerly unfold the letter, struck again by the familiar loop of Gram’s handwriting.

There’s a sudden wall of heat behind me, the scent of Theo, his breath on my neck as we read together.

May 10, 1957

Good evening, my love,

Do you think I’m silly, writing this letter while you’re in the room with me? I have so many ideas and I want to write them down.

Now that we’ve decided to elope, here’s what we’ll do: get married as soon as the year is over and then go on our honeymoon road trip. Should we get a map today? I’ll show you all the places that sound most exciting, and you can tell me if I’m right or wrong (we both know I’ll be right).

I’m dreaming about the beautiful photographs you’ll take. Ones we can hang in our home when we get back to LA. Maybe I’ll take some pictures of you—I’ll steal your camera when we leave the courthouse. The whole trip will be crooked landscapes and close-ups of your face.

You always call my face precious, but it’s yours that makes me happy. I am happy, even if it’s not the wedding I thought I’d have. I believe you when you tell me it will be okay. Just keep saying it so I don’t forget.

Yours forever,

Kat

By the time I finish, the words are dancing on the page. It’s bittersweet to be doing this in her place. Her hope was so palpable here. What took it away?

“Well.” I sniff, keeping my eyes pinned to the paper so neither of them can see my emotion, which is silly. My voice is threaded with it. “Good news: I’ll be fulfilling the role of crooked landscape photographer.”

“I doubt that,” Paul says gently.

I hand him back the letter, averting my gaze from Theo. He hasn’t said a word. Does he think I’m ridiculous? Or is it poignant for him, too?

When I chance a look at him, his gaze is penetrating, but not judgmental. Maybe it’s in accordance with our truce; I don’t know.

Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m going to use the restroom real quick.”

I escape to do my business, patting at my face with forty-ply toilet paper in the mirror after I’ve washed my hands. With a stern, silent look at mirror-me to get ahold of ourselves, I let out a breath. It starts shaky, but ends steadier.

I can do this. I want this. Most importantly, I need it.

The bathroom feeds into the kitchen, and as I step into it, there’s a rustling in the foyer. Fearing it’s Theo, I slow, running my hand along the counter.

The footsteps recede quickly, so I pick up my pace. My fingers brush against something, then snag on its weight. It takes me five full seconds to recognize what I’m looking at, but when it sinks in, my heart skips a beat.

Our senior yearbook. I look over my shoulder to make sure I’m alone, though this isn’t my secret to get caught with, then pull the book closer.

It flips to a page bookmarked with articles from our high school paper, as well as one from Glenlake’s. They’re tennis articles about Theo.

But also about me.

My heart beats fast. I shuffle through the slightly smudged paper, my eyes scanning the profile our paper did on me, and the one they did on Theo weeks later. I counted the words in each of our articles and was pissed to discover his had one hundred more.

Why did he keep this? And why is it out now?

The pleasure that pours through my veins like a serotonin jet stream isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s concerning. It’s bad enough that I’m curious about him. I can’t think about the possibility that he might be curious right back. Mutual attraction? Fine. But mutual interest? That can only end in disaster.

This trip isn’t about Theo and me. It’s about Gram. It’s about me. I have to squash this feeling.

I slam the book shut and put it back. I never touched it. Never saw it.

I’m absolutely going to forget it.

I don’t forget it.

Not when Paul insists he prefers the backseat, leaving me in front with Theo. Not when I find out Theo’s programmed his phone to the van’s Bluetooth, like a dog peeing on a tree. Nor when he reminds me as I’m covertly pushing buttons in an attempt to disconnect his phone, that we agreed to a truce and sabotaging his music isn’t very truce-like. Not even when we have to listen to his old, moody ‘90s playlist full of songs I either loathe or don’t know for the three-hour drive.

He was remembering me. He was remembering us, whatever us there used to be. What does it mean? There’s nothing I hate more than a question unanswered, especially when I can’t ask it.

I’m itchy and restless. Theo tosses me no less than forty irritated looks, though he stays contained in brooding silence. Paul is the MVP, wrapping me up in conversation until we pull up to our hulking cabin-style hotel in Groveland, forty minutes outside Yosemite Valley.

We check in and eat a quick dinner at the hotel’s restaurant. By the time we’re done, it’s nearing nine and Paul’s energy level has nosedived.

“I hate to cut the night short,” he says as we exit the elevator on the third floor. “I’m not used to keeping up with you kids.”

Theo has his hand on Paul’s shoulder, guiding him down the hall. “It’s fine, we have to get up early tomorrow anyway.”

I’ve already set my alarm for six; we have to be out the door by quarter to seven to beat the crowds.

But after we say good night in front of our adjacent rooms, restless energy beats through me. I sit listening to the silence on the other end of the wall, staring at the camera bag with my freshly cleaned equipment, and think about the way Theo looks at me sometimes. The way his voice dips low. That crooked smirk.

At ten I give up and dig through my suitcase for my bathing suit. I only brought one, a high-waisted bikini I bought for a girls’ trip to Costa Rica years ago. It’s black, simple, a little sporty but shows a lot of ass, which is objectively my best feature. In hindsight, a one-piece may have been more appropriate, but I like my body in this suit.

Would Theo?

“No,” I demand, glaring at myself in the full-length mirror. The gleam in mirror-me’s brown eyes is defiant.

God. I can’t even agree with myself. Maybe a dip in the hot tub will steam my brain cells into submission. Or kill some off.

Once I’m dressed, I slip on a robe and make my way down to the pool. The posted hours say it closed at ten, but the gate is propped open, so I slip inside.

Aside from the hum of conversation from the restaurant patio, it’s quiet. At my feet, the hot tub bubbles, steam hissing into the cool night air. Above, the sky stretches into forever and nothing, an infinite number of stars shaken across it.

I yank at the knotted belt of the robe, but a voice nearby stops me.

“—push me out.”

I freeze. That sounded like Theo.

“I know, Matias, but you—”

Again, the voice stops, clearly frustrated. It’s definitely Theo; even angry—or, god, maybe especially that way—the timbre of it sings through my body.

“I’ve got my dad up my ass right now, I don’t need you there, too. I told you this morning, I’m unavailable for the next two weeks,” he says, low and tight. He sounds closer now, but I still don’t see him. “You and Anton agreed to that—” Another pause, then a laugh. It sounds dead. “Yeah, I know what’s going to happen, and that’s exactly why I don’t give a shit about the timing of this trip. I’m having my attorney look at everything, too. There’s nothing else we can do right now, so let me do this. No more fucking calls, okay?”

There are footsteps now, incredibly close. I scramble to unknot my robe, my heart racing, but Theo rounds the corner just as it falls to the ground.

When he catches sight of me, he stops so suddenly that it looks like he ran into an invisible wall. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t. I’m standing here with my ass hanging out, feeling naked in every sense of the word as his eyes sweep over me.

It’s confirmed: he likes my body in this bikini. And my body loves that.

“Eavesdropping?” he asks finally, that tightness still in his voice.

“Keeping secrets?” I shoot back.

He’s so tense. Even ten feet away, in the darkness and with a gate separating us, it’s radiating off him. His shoulders are tight, his hand clenched around his phone like he’s seconds away from throwing it.

Theo’s life has always seemed perfect from far away. But I’m close enough now to see the cracks.

He pushes through the gate, slipping his phone into his pocket. His eyes run over me quickly and he swallows, then looks away.

“I had to check in with work,” he says. His gaze flickers back to my face, dropping lower briefly. It’s like the steam brushing against my skin: hot, but too insubstantial to really feel.

A cold shower would be ideal, but the hot tub will have to do. I slip into the water, letting out a sigh as it engulfs me. Theo watches from the edge, his hands in his pockets, the lights from the hot tub dancing across his face. It could just be the way it’s distorting his features, but for a second he looks . . . devastated.

I remember the days I’d run to Gram’s house after a terrible breakup or a professional heartache. There was something cathartic in knowing she’d open the door and instantly recognize I needed to talk. That I needed to shed a secret, or two, or ten.

I see it in Theo’s face now; the weight of it, whatever it is.

“My gram and I . . .” I trail off, unsure. He’s still looking down at me, his expression morphing from blank to hungry to miserable as the lights flicker under the roiling water. “We had a thing we did. We called it Tell Me a Secret, and every time we saw each other, we’d exchange a secret we needed to get off our chest. Sometimes more, depending on how big a disaster the day was.”

Recognition of my offer smooths out his brow. His shoulders straighten and he exhales, deep and tired. Then he crouches, resting his forearms on his knees. “All right, Shepard. Wanna play?”

I raise a challenging eyebrow. “Do you?”

“Tell me yours first.” It’s bossy, too familiar, like he came up with the game himself and he’s letting me participate.

But I started this, so I play along. I run my hand through a circle of bubbles, letting my expression turn threatening. “I want to throw your phone into the pool. If I’m subjected to any more Radiohead, I’m going to fling myself out of the car while it’s moving.” A smile—so tiny but there—breaks the straight line of his mouth, curves it into something lighter. My chest goes so warm. Must be the hot tub. “But also, you should get two weeks without whatever stress your job is giving you, if that’s what you asked for.”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and I follow the sinuous motion. I hate that it’s sexy. I hate that he’s sexy, and that he’s sad, and I don’t like that I hate that. It scares me. I don’t need this.

But I don’t stop it, either. “Tell me yours.”

“What do you have against Radiohead?”

I glare. “That’s not a secret.”

He grins. “Thom Yorke is a genius.”

“Thom Yorke makes me want to throw myself out of a moving vehicle, and also, maybe try music from this century. Now tell me your secret, Spencer, or I’m going to push you into the pool with your phone.”

He stands, and for a moment I feel so utterly exposed it takes my breath away. I shared something personal with him and he’s going to leave?

I open my mouth to tell him where else his phone can go, but he gets there first.

“I can’t wait to see you with a camera in your hand tomorrow.” He says it in a rush, then looks down, exhaling slowly. “You’d better be as good as I remember. No crooked photos.”

And then he walks away without another word, leaving me gaping after him.