Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
The music box winds down to its final notes. I carefully set it back on my nightstand, running my fingers over the worn wood one more time.
“Thank you,” I say again, “for fixing it.”
“Anytime.” Ryder shifts beside me, stretching his long legs out. “Though I have to say, this room is...”
“Depressing?” I offer.
He looks around properly, taking in the dark furniture, the stone walls, and the heavy curtains. “I was going to say ‘atmospheric,’ but yeah, depressing works too.”
“I wish this room felt more like mine. Like me. But I don’t know where to start.”
Ryder’s gaze lands on the paintings hanging above my bed. The twisted, skeletal trees against stormy skies. “Do those bother you?”
I follow his gaze and feel the familiar tightness in my chest. “Yeah. They do.”
“Then let’s take them down.”
He’s already standing before I can respond, moving toward the bed with purpose.
Without ceremony, Ryder lifts the largest of the twisted tree paintings off its hooks and leans it against the wall, facing away from the bed.
“You’re supposed to be living here, right? Why not make your room feel like you?”
“Have you done that?” I ask. “Made your room feel like yours?”
“I’m maintaining guest status,” he replies, moving to the second painting. “I’m not living here. I’m staying in a guest room.”
“Right, because you have a family to go back to.”
He pauses, his hands on the second frame, and looks back at me. Something vulnerable flashes across his face. “Yeah. I do.”
He takes down the other disturbing painting and turns it to face the wall beside its companion. The room isn’t magically welcoming now, but there’s a weight lifted from my shoulders.
“Better?” Ryder asks, surveying his work.
“So much better,” I whisper, feeling like I can take a full breath in this room for the first time.
He turns back to me, hands on his hips, looking satisfied. “The room already feels bigger without those God-awful paintings dragging down the vibe. Did you want me to replace them with something?”
My gaze drops to my suitcases that sit by the armoire. “I didn’t bring a lot with me.” My hand digs around behind me and retrieves Ellie from between the pillows. “Except Ellie.”
Ryder smirks, waving at the blue stuffed elephant. “Hi Ellie. Another childhood memento?”
“Yes. She’s good for hugs.”
“I’m glad you have something from home that’s comforting.”
I nod, smoothing my hand across Ellie’s plush fabric. “Me too. Most of my stuff is in my old neighbors’ garage.”
He gestures at the painting-free wall. “At least this is a start at making this place feel like home.”
“How do I decorate without them?” The question comes out hoarse, my vision blurring with sudden tears.
Ryder shifts closer. “What do you mean?”
“Starting over?” My voice cracks. “I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to act like it’s okay they’re gone.”
“It’s not okay. No one said it was okay.”
I look up at him, blinking tears away to see the sympathy on his face as he sits on the bed beside me.
“But you’re brave, Alice.”
I scoff. “Brave? I’m the girl scared of thunder, remember?”
“Don’t do that. Yeah, you’re struggling. Who wouldn’t be? But every day you’re standing up.” His hand creeps over mine where it rests on the bed between us. “That’s bravery.”
I look down at his hand on mine, and the breath hitches in my throat. His touch is warm and solid.
He nods at the placement of his hand. “Is this okay?”
I nod, not trusting my voice, and watch as his fingers slowly slide over mine. The touch is tentative, like he’s giving me every opportunity to pull away if I want to.
But I don’t want to pull away. The way his fingers, calloused from guitar strings, interweave with mine feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“I didn’t think I’d feel like this,” I whisper, the admission slipping out before I can stop it.
“Like what?” Ryder asks, his thumb tracing gentle circles on the back of my hand.
“Like I could feel anything other than numb or broken.”
“You’re not broken.” Ryder’s free hand comes up to cup my cheek. The careful touch makes my eyes flutter closed. “Maybe a little bent, like the spring in the music box.”
I lean into his touch, feeling more grounded than I have since my parents died. “Can you fix me just as easily?”
His palm presses against my cheek, and his thumb brushes across my cheekbone, giving me a cocoon of safety and connection.
“Ally,” the nickname pours out of him like music.
I open my eyes and find him looking at me with an expression I can’t quite read. The moment stretches between us, weighted with something I’m not ready to name. My heart hammers in my chest, and suddenly the intimacy feels too much.
I pull back slightly, and Ryder’s hand falls away from my cheek at the same time.
Ryder clears his throat softly and looks around the room again, his gaze landing on something by my closet. “Is that your camera bag?”
I follow his gaze. “Yes.”
“Your parents wanted you to use it to capture your adventures, right?”
“If I ever have one again.”
He looks up at the blank space where the paintings were. “I think taking down something ugly that was frightening you is huge. It’s brave. You should document it.”
My stomach tightens. “I haven’t used it since...”
“I know.” There’s purpose in his voice. “But maybe you could take one photo. Just one. Capturing something in this moment.”
“Ryder…”
“What about the music box?” he suggests, nodding toward my nightstand. “That wouldn’t be a big deal, would it?”
A knot ties between my shoulder blades.
He smiles and throws a thumb toward his chest. “Or me, if you want proof that I actually did something helpful today.”
Despite everything, I almost laugh. “You want me to take your picture?”
“I’m just saying, I’d make an excellent subject.” He’s teasing now, trying to lighten the mood. “Very photogenic. Great hair.”
I shake my head, but I’m already thinking about lighting and angles.
“One photo,” Ryder says again, softer this time. “That’s all. Just to prove you still can.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Then you don’t.” He shrugs. “But I think your parents gave you that camera for a reason. I think it’s because you have a talent.”
The words hit harder than I’d expect.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Surprise lifts his brow. “Yeah?”
“One photo.” I stand on unsteady legs. “Just one.”
I cross to the closet, where I left my camera bag as if it was nothing.
I set it on the bed and unzip it slowly.
“You okay?” Ryder asks, still sitting on the edge of the bed.
I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true. I lift the camera out carefully, feeling the familiar weight in my hands. The neck strap still has the adjustment I made the last time I used it. The lens cap is still slightly loose on the left-hand side.
Everything about it is familiar, and that’s what hurts the most.
“What should I photograph?” my voice is surprisingly steady.
Ryder considers it for a moment, then reaches over and picks up the music box from the nightstand. He holds it in his palm, and the afternoon light from the window catches the worn edges.
“This,” he says simply. “Something that was broken and now works again.”
I raise the camera, my fingers finding the controls through muscle memory. I adjust the focus and frame the shot through the viewfinder. Ryder’s strong hand cradles the music box with the light streaming in behind him.
My finger hovers over the shutter button.
“I can’t,” I whisper, lowering the camera.
“Yes, you can,” Ryder’s voice is firm but not pushing. “It’s just one click, Ally.”
I raise the camera again. Through the viewfinder, I see Ryder watching me, patient and steady. The music box rests in his hands like something precious.
“Something that was broken and now works again.”
I press the shutter.
The click echoes in the quiet room, and I lower the camera slowly, staring at it.
“There,” Ryder says softly. “See? You still can.”
I look at the back of the camera, at the tiny preview image. It’s not perfect—the exposure is slightly off, the composition a little unbalanced—but it exists.
I used my camera.
“One more?” Ryder asks carefully.
I look up at him, then at the bare wall behind my bed. This melancholy space is waiting for something better to fill it. Letting instinct take over, I capture the shadowy color difference on the wall.
I lower the camera and stare at the preview screen. Two photos. Two tiny rectangles of proof that I can still do this. With a quick breath in, I click the back arrow and scan the images of Mom and Dad. The images I’ve been petrified to look at for weeks.
People like Jasper Whitmore can have their dad replace a broken camera the next day.
But my parents will never be able to replace what they gave me.
I cradle the camera closer to my body and let the images rotate across the screen.
This is precious to me, and I’m not letting anyone—especially not a preppy rich kid—take it away from me.
I look up at Ryder, who’s watching me with that careful expression, like he’s afraid to break whatever fragile thing is happening inside me.
The words come out before thinking. “I don’t want to stop.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I grip the camera tighter, feeling the weight of it differently now.
A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “What do you want to photograph?”
“You. If that’s okay.”
Ryder’s expression shifts to surprise, and then to something softer. “Me?”
“You fixed the music box. You took down the paintings. You...” I trail off, not sure how to explain. “You helped me find this again. I want to capture that somehow.”
He smiles eagerly. “Okay. Where?”
“By the window?” I gesture toward the window seat. “The light’s good there.”