Chapter 13 #2
“Garbage,” he grumbles, taking another shot from a slightly different angle. “How do people make this look easy?”
I can’t help myself. I get off the bench and watch his attempts get worse and worse.
My fingers itch.
No, I shouldn’t help. I swore off photography. I haven’t had the urge to capture a photo since shutting down the social media account for my parents’ catering business.
But the instinct is stronger than my resistance.
Lifting onto my tiptoes to match his tall frame, I reach out and tilt his phone screen down slightly. “Try it now.”
Ryder takes the photo, and his face brightens with surprise. “Whoa. It looks way better. How did you do that?”
I turn away, flushed. “Simple composition. Nothing to it.”
He taps on his screen. “Do you think I should post this?”
I shrug, trying to sound disinterested. “If you want.”
“Do you think something else would look better?”
I clutch my elbows. “I really don’t know.”
Ryder bends his knees and slides his phone into my line of vision. “Alice, in one movement you made my photo look better than anything else I’ve posted online. You’ve got to have some kind of knack for this.”
I remember Dad’s voice. “For capturing all your adventures, Sprout.”
I wince. “Is this what the promotions guys want? Something not taken in a studio?”
He nods, holding his phone out for the taking. “I’m supposed to intersperse them between the professional shots.”
I blow out a breath and take the phone before the grief orders me not to do it.
“Maybe get your guitar and sit by the edge of the pond,” I suggest.
“You want me to pose with my guitar?”
“It’s a pretty background, and with this overcast sky it’d create a really moody image.” I shrug. “Could be a good look for someone who plays alt-rock.”
Ryder lifts his acoustic guitar out of its case. “I’m game.”
As he walks toward the pond, I take a large gulp of air, holding it for four before letting it go.
He settles by the pond’s edge with the instrument across his lap. “Like this?” he asks.
“Don’t look at the camera.”
“Where am I supposed to look?”
I frame him on the phone screen. “The ducks, the water, the trees. Just... away. Distant.”
The composition comes naturally. Ryder in the foreground with his guitar, the peaceful pond in the middle ground, and the dramatic mountains rising in the background.
His fingers find the strings, and he’s not posing anymore. Just... playing.
A melody starts, soft and familiar. And my breath catches.
I know this song.
The one from The Late Show I’ve been listening to on repeat when I can’t sleep.
The breath leaves me in a rush, and I lower the phone without meaning to.
Ryder’s eyes snap to me.
His hand shifts, fingers catching the wrong string, and the note rings out ugly and discordant. We both wince.
“Ugh.” His gaze drops to his hand. The tremor is faint but visible, running through his fingers where they grip the neck of the guitar.
“Hey, it was just one note,” I say.
“It’s never just one note.” His voice is clipped, as if he’s talking to himself, which is worse to witness. “Dang it. I was in my head, and I kind of forgot you were watching.”
“Aren’t you used to being watched?”
Ryder swipes a hand over his face as his brow creases. “You’d think.”
“You’re being really hard on yourself.”
Ryder lifts his hand, and the tremor in his fingers is real. “This is what happens when I play solo.”
“Nerves? You?”
“I’d puke after every open-mic night before Miranda found me. That’s why I’m here. Stuck in this town. Stuck in this band.”
“You want to play solo?”
He cautiously cracks a smile. “It’s the dream.”
I find the courage to smile back. “You’re already a rockstar. I think you’re living your dream.”
He shakes his head, his frown creeping back. “Not yet.”
My mind goes back to the Late Show clip. The way the song opens with that small stumble before he found his footing and made it soar.
I’d memorised that imperfection. I found it charming without understanding why.
“For what it’s worth,” I say, lifting the phone to cover my face, “the stumble is the best part of the song.”
His head tilts. “What do you mean?”
“I just...” I can feel my face heating. “I recognized the song from your Late Show performance.”
“You watched it?”
“I saw a clip,” I reply defensively. “It’s not like I sought it out or anything.”
“I didn’t say you did.” There’s a pensive look on his face, and I instinctively snap a photo as the late afternoon light catches his profile. “Did you like it?”
My fingers tremble around the phone. “Yeah. It’s... it’s good.”
“You never told me you heard it.”
I wipe the sweat from my brow. “I just did.”
He smirks, looking off into the distance, hovering his hand over the guitar strings. “Fair point.”
“Don’t move,” I say quickly. “The light’s perfect right now.”
I take the shot. He idly strums the guitar, tentative and casual. I take another shot, a perfectly unmanicured composition. Effortless and unfiltered. A portrait of someone else making art.
A rush takes over me as everything aligns with satisfaction.
And I created it.
Ouch.
The grief burrows in my chest.
I created it.
Just like the hundreds of photos I posted online. Every piece I curated for my parents, I made sure showcased my artistic signature. And now it’s meaningless.
Everything I loved is gone. Nothing left matters.
The phone slips from my hand.
“Alice?” Ryder’s voice sounds far away, like he’s speaking through water.
Everything blurs in two, and then three. I’m dizzy. Spinning. The ground tilts.
“Got you,” his voice is soft and his arms catch me. “You okay?”
I’m reclined in his arms, looking up at his chiseled face, and feeling his strong hands pressing into my back.
“You caught me,” I say weakly. “Even with trembling hands.”
He whispers a laugh.
For a moment, I want to feel good, but then my stomach lurches. I’m gonna hurl.
I bat my hands against him, wanting his arms off me. He makes sure I’m steady on my feet before his hands lift away.
“What happened?”
I’m breathless. “Nothing.”
I swoop down to collect his phone, but I swivel as everything blurs in different directions.
“Whoa, Alice,” he murmurs, grabbing my shoulder. “Leave it. It’s okay.”
I bat his arm away. “Don’t.”
“But you…”
“But nothing,” I blurt, swiping the hair off my clammy face. “I’m fine.”
Ryder picks up his phone, and I take my chance to move away from him. My legs are unsteady, and I stumble on my way toward my backpack.
“Alice, you’re not fine.”
I keep my back to him, not dignifying his statement with a response.
“Hey, you did a good job with these.”
The grief keeps me muted, but my heart wants to bounce at his reaction to my photos.
I shoulder my backpack, and he sneaks beside me to return his guitar to its case.
He clips the case closed and suggests, “Why don’t we get some food?”
I flinch. “Why?”
“Well, if you’re up to it, I’d like you to look at my essay.” He lifts the guitar case, and I catch the uncertainty in his expression. “And, no offense, I’d like you to be functional when you help me. Instead of dizzy spells, how about you actually eat some food?”
Actually eat? As in… he notices I don’t?
“Come on,” he urges, nodding to the left. “There’s a good burger joint down the road. You can’t say no to a burger, can you?”
My stomach gives the faintest growl. I guess not feeling faint wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.
I nod. “Okay. Let’s go.”