37. Serena
Serena
In the quiet of my room, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. The trees rustle against the side of the house, the sound traveling through the open balcony doors. The room is sweet and light with the scent of citrus, the sea, the impossible rolling hills of green.
But I’m not thinking about the scenery or the delicious fish Ryan made for us tonight. I’m not thinking about the walk with Graham through wild lemon trees, the gorgeous vista he showed me, and how his hand slipped to the small of my back.
Instead of anything that might bring me even a little peace, I’m thinking about my best friend.
Ex-best friend.
My mind rolls the tape on a loop. I think about confronting Bianca. I imagine walking back into the house and finding her there, yelling at her, asking her what she was thinking. If our friendship meant nothing to her. If she was with Alex before he cut things off with me.
If she had anything to do with my things being thrown out on the lawn.
Would she cry? Would she try to defend herself? Would there be some way, somehow, that this whole thing was a mistake?
Finally, after more than an hour of tossing and turning, trying to convince myself to sleep and being unable to, I get up. Moving quickly, I grab my camera, pull on a sweater, and pull my curls into a bun so they don't whip around my face in the wind.
The heft of my camera in my hands already makes me feel better.
Sleep won’t come, so I might as well do the one thing that always manages to take my mind off of things.
When Graham and I walked through the lemon trees earlier, I found myself automatically composing shots, thinking about how I could show the feeling of the place.
Symmetry in the lemons themselves, beauty in the leaves, yet wildness, an untamed kind of flavor rooted in the haphazard way they dot the countryside.
A sort of euphoria floats through me as I tiptoe through the house, the tile floor cool under my bare feet.
It’s silent and a little eerie, the moonlight filtering in through the huge windows in the living room.
When I pass the couch, I can’t stop myself from glancing down, thinking about what Graham and I did together right there.
Outside, the breeze flutters against my skin like a cat looking for affection. I push into my Birkenstocks, walk down the front steps and re-trace the path Graham and I took earlier.
It’s different at night. At first, I think it might be spooky, that I might be too scared to go through with the night photography, but it’s not, and I’m not. It’s peaceful, a sort of quiet I haven’t experienced in a long time.
Well, not since being at the grotto with Graham.
And before that… maybe never. Foster homes aren’t usually peaceful places, and living in the city, you get used to a certain level of background noise that never leaves.
A sort of constant feedback of life, the bustle of always being near other humans.
As I walk, lemon trees sprout up around me, and I let myself fall into the art.
Moonlight shines on the fruit like sorbetto, all pale yellow.
I let my photos blur a little, adjust the settings and aim for a gauzy sort of feel. It captures what it’s really like out here—a dream.
I’m so enraptured with what I’m doing that I don’t realize there’s something or someone following me until I hear the crack of a branch.
My body goes still. I try to remember what Graham said when we were walking, if he mentioned anything dangerous out here. Are there bobcats? Could I fight a bobcat?
Maybe I could throw my camera at it.
But I don’t want to do that. Not with these pictures on the SD card.
“Serena.”
The scream I let out is blood-curdling, and I throw my camera at the imaginary animal. Luckily, the strap around my neck snaps taut, stopping it from falling on the ground. It thumps lamely against my chest, and I cradle it again, a silent apology for sacrificing it.
“Jesus Christ, Graham, you scared the shit out of me?—”
He steps out of the shadows and closer to me, and my throat catches.
Of course, the man is handsome in low light, too.
The size of him always hits me first, but now my eyes travel over his beard, the button-up shirt that hangs open on his broad chest, the backward ball cap on his head. Why is that so attractive?
“You shouldn’t be out here by yourself,” he says, his eyes dropping down to my feet. “And definitely not in sandals.”
“Why?” I ask, eyes peering around on the ground. “Are there, like, snakes or something?”
At that, Graham laughs, and I snap my gaze back to him. It always feels like a triumph, to make him laugh.
“No,” he says, stepping forward and wrapping his arm around the small of my back, pulling me in close. “But you could trip and fall, and we would never find you out here, covered in lemons.”
With that, he covers his mouth over mine, and I practically climb his body, hands sliding over his chest, under his shirt, a moan slipping through my lips at the feel of all that warm skin under my fingers.
He’s a furnace, the perfect glow of warmth I need now that a chill zips up my back, under my sweatshirt.
“Been waiting to do that all day,” he says when he pulls back, stopping just to press a kiss to the tip of my nose. I stare at him in wonder. How can this man—these men—be real?
Then Graham sets me back down, straightens my sweatshirt, and says, “Go on, then.”
“Go on?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
He gestures to the lemons, “Keep taking pictures. I don’t want to stop you.”
Now that lust for this man is humming through my veins, the photos take on a different quality. Far more Italian, now, indulgent and rich, laden with meaning. The lemons hang from the trees like they are seconds from falling right into the palm of your hand. It’s practically erotic.
Graham dutifully trails behind me as I continue taking pictures. As I pull back and adjust a few settings, I ask, “Why are you up?”
Without missing a beat, he says, “It’s my mother’s birthday.”
Blinking, I turn to him, letting the camera drop against my chest once more. His mother, who is gone. “Graham. Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he mutters, shaking his head and stepping away from me to examine a tree. “Been a long time. Just—I’m older now—than she was. When she died. It’s weird.”
I swallow, move toward him, place a hand on his shoulder, “My parents died when I was little. Too young to remember them.”
He already knows that, but it feels worth saying. Like maybe it can help him feel less alone.
“Yeah.” His throat bobs when he turns back toward me, popping the baseball hat from his head and running a hand through his thick hair. “Guess I should be grateful I got to know her at all.”
“No, that’s not what I?—”
He reaches for me, smoothing the loose tendrils of hair back from my face.
“Serena. I know what you meant. No matter how it happens, it’s a cruel act of the universe.
” Graham pauses, looks off into the distance, then says, “Growing up without my mom, with just Stephen… your parents are supposed to love you unconditionally. When you’re a kid without that, you become an adult who’s not sure you’re worth it. ”
Graham blinks, then his gaze jerks back to me. There’s a flicker of embarrassment on his face—then it passes and he smiles—giving me a sheepish look, “At least, I assume.”
“I assume so, too,” I choke back. My heart aches at the truth of it, at how similar he and I are, despite all the differences.
This time, when Graham brings his mouth to mine, it’s sweet, tender. Warm. He tastes, somehow, like lemon and ginger, and I wonder if he had tea before coming out here. The idea of that—of him comforting himself over the loss of his mother, alone—makes that ache in my chest spread.
I want to be here for him. I want to be the thing that makes him feel better.
He pulls back again, peers down at me, his breath coming quick. There’s a look of wonder in his eyes again, and I think he can see it reflected in mine.
“Oh—shit.”
The moment is interrupted by the slide of rock and dirt to our right. I jump and Graham moves in front of me. Then we seem to realize at the same time it’s Ryan on his ass, groaning loudly.
“Ryan!” I move around Graham and hurry to him, crouching down beside him, looking him over for injuries. “Are you okay? What happened?”
He sits up, winces, shakes his head. “I’m fine. I heard you slip out and figured I’d better make sure you didn’t get hurt out here. But I lost you in the trees.”
When he looks up and catches my gaze, I realize his face is close to mine, and without thinking, I surge forward, pressing my lips to his, “Well, thanks. I’m glad you’re okay.”
Ryan’s expression has gone a little lax, and he glances between me and Graham, who stands over us both. “I’m gonna be honest with you,” Ryan murmurs, eyes jumping to mine. “I might have seen you two. On the couch.”
Instantly, my face flushes.
I run back through what it was like with Graham, remember his mouth on my chest, the fervor of my hips moving against him. What it must have looked like from behind, when I was bouncing on his cock.
And I remember thinking about Ryan there, at the same time. Taking him in my mouth, much like I did with him and Travis.
When I meet Ryan’s eyes again, my lust is mirrored there. Maybe he’s thinking about the other night, too.
“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he rasps, licking his lips, his gaze locked on me. “And I was wondering if…”
Taking a stuttering breath, I turn to look at Graham and find him staring down at me, at my hand on Ryan’s chest. Voice low, he shows he understands exactly what Ryan is asking: “I’m open to it if Serena is.”
“Oh,” Ryan murmurs, a rumble in his voice, “Serena?”
I nod quickly, looking at one and then the other.
“Okay,” Graham says before tugging me into him, hooking a hand under my knee, and pulling it up so I can feel how hard he is for me. “Hope you guys are comfortable with outdoor sex. It’s a little different than a pillowtop mattress.”