Chapter 32 Jay #2
"Stop," I say, holding up a hand to block my face when I notice.
"No way. I need pictures of you. I need proof this is real."
"I'm not photogenic. I look terrible in photos."
"Bullshit. Total bullshit." He lowers the phone. "You're the most gorgeous person I've ever seen in my life. I need proof that weekend actually happened. When I'm back home and missing you, I want to be able to look at these and remember everything."
"Ivan—"
"Just one. Please? Just one picture? Humor me."
I sigh and drop my hand. "Fine. One. Just one."
He takes about fifteen, the phone clicking over and over.
"You said one!" I protest.
"I lied. I have no shame." He's grinning, scrolling through the photos on his screen. "These are amazing. Look at this one."
He shows me the screen. It's me, caught mid-laugh at something he said, the sun lighting up my face. My eyes are crinkled at the corners, my mouth open in genuine happiness. I look... happy. I look like someone I don't recognize, someone who knows what joy feels like.
"See? You look beautiful." He saves the photo and sets it as his phone wallpaper right in front of me, replacing whatever was there before. "There. Now I can look at you whenever I want. Whenever I miss you."
"You're ridiculous. You know that?"
"I'm really happy right now. Like, really, really happy. That's all."
"Your turn now," I tell him, pulling out my own phone. "Fair's fair. Let me take pictures of you."
He poses dramatically, making stupid faces, sticking his tongue out, crossing his eyes. And I laugh so hard I can barely hold the phone steady. Then he settles down and gives me a real smile—genuine and full of warmth—and I take the picture.
"Let me see," he says, reaching for the phone.
He looks at himself on the screen—happy, relaxed, his blue eyes bright with joy—and he nods slowly.
"Not bad," he admits.
"Not bad? You're so handsome it hurts to look at you sometimes."
He ducks his head, pleased but embarrassed. "Shut up. Stop saying things like that."
"Make me."
He leans over and kisses me, and for a while we forget about the pictures entirely, forget about everything except each other.
When we break apart, both of us breathless and grinning, Ivan grabs his phone again. "We need one together. A picture of both of us."
"How? Our arms aren't that long and we don't have a selfie stick."
"Timer function." He fiddles with the phone, then props it against a rock, angling it toward us carefully. "Okay, we've got ten seconds. Get over here."
I scoot closer, and he throws his arm around my shoulders, pulling me against his side. The phone beeps its countdown—ten, nine, eight.
"Smile," he says.
"I am smiling."
"Smile bigger. Like you're actually happy. Like you just had the best day of your life."
"I am happy. And this is the best day."
The phone clicks, capturing us. Ivan scrambles to grab it, nearly knocking it over in his eagerness, and we look at the screen together.
It's perfect. Us together, arms around each other, both of us grinning like idiots.
The sky is huge behind us, the valley stretching out below, the whole world spread out at our feet.
And we look like two people who belong together. Who fit like one piece.
"One more," Ivan says, already setting the timer again. "Just one more."
We take about a dozen. Silly ones where we make faces.
Serious ones where we try to look mature.
One where Ivan kisses my cheek right as the camera goes off, catching me by surprise, my eyes wide.
One where I'm looking at him instead of the camera and he's looking at me and we're both smiling like we have a secret the rest of the world doesn't know.
By the end, my face hurts from smiling and Ivan is laughing so hard he can barely breathe, his whole body shaking with it.
"These are perfect," he says, scrolling through them on his phone. "I'm keeping all of them. Every single one. I'm documenting our first weekend together. This is important. This is our history."
He shows me his favorite—the one with the kiss on the cheek, the surprise on my face, the joy in his. "This one's going in my favorites folder."
"Send me that one," I say quietly. "I want it too."
He does, immediately. My phone buzzes with the incoming picture, and I save it to my photos.
"Now we both have proof," Ivan says. "That we found each other. That this weekend happened."
Later, when the sun is starting to sink lower in the sky and we're lying on our backs looking up at the clouds, Ivan brings up logistics.
"We need to figure out when we're going to talk," he says, turning his head to look at me. "During the week, I mean. When I'm not here. When I'm back home."
"Whenever you're free. I'm not as busy as you are. My schedule is wide open."
"But I want to make sure we have a regular time.
Something consistent. Something you can count on.
" He finds my hand in the grass, threads our fingers together.
"I work a lot of overtime most days. Some nights I don't get home until eight or nine.
But after that, once I'm home and showered and have eaten, I'm free to talk all night. "
"Should we talk at nine? Every night?"
"Every night. I'll call you." He squeezes my hand. "I know it's not the same as being here. I know it's not the same as holding you. But I want you to have something to hold onto when things get hard. When the cravings hit or the nightmares come."
My throat tightens. He's thinking about the dark nights, the moments when I want to reach for a bottle or a pill. He's trying to build in a safety net, trying to give me something to cling to.
"That works for me," I say. "I'm usually just sitting around anyway."
"Then it's a plan. Every night at nine, I call you.
No matter what. Or you can call me." He turns onto his side to face me fully.
"And if you need me before that—if you're having a bad day or you're struggling—you call me.
Anytime. I don't care if I'm at work or asleep or in the middle of something. You call me. Okay?"
"I don't want to bother you when you're—"
"You're never a bother." He props himself up on his elbow, looking down at me with fierce intensity. "I mean it. If you need me, you call. That's what I'm here for. That's what this is."
I look up at him, this man who's trying so hard to make this work despite the distance and the damage. How did I get this lucky? What did I do to deserve this?
"If I need you, I'll call."
He smiles and leans down to kiss me. "That's all I'm asking. Let's keep an open communication channel going."
We stay at the ridge until the sun starts to dip toward the horizon. We take more pictures. We talk about nothing important and everything important.
This is what normal feels like, I realize as we pack up our trash and head back to the bike. This is what it's like to have someone. To do regular things with another person who actually wants to be there.
I could get used to this.
I really, really could.