Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
The room is cloaked in darkness as I lay on my bed, the weight of my demons pressing down on me. Another sleepless night and no way out since I promised myself I’d quit drinking while Sloan still occupies our guest room.
Our last late-night encounter nearly went off the rails, and I can’t afford to let that happen again. I need to keep a clear head. Yet here I am, spiraling again, memories of blonde hair swimming in blood-red water trying to push into my conscience, guilt threatening to consume me.
I’m not strong enough for this.
The whiskey is calling to me from downstairs like a siren’s song. It is the only thing that seems to get me through these tormenting nights.
Drink until I can’t think.
Unable to take it anymore, I finally give in, dragging myself out of bed and walking down the creaky staircase. As I head toward the kitchen, a strange sight catches my eye—an eerie red light seeping from under Lio’s bathroom door.
It’s after midnight, and Lio is fast asleep. I just checked an hour ago. Leaving only…
Her.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I walk down the hallway to stand in front of the door, but it’s silent inside. So I push the door open quietly.
“No! Fuck!” Sloan whisper-shouts at me, her eyes wide with irritation as she pulls me into the small bathroom and closes the door quickly behind me. “Damn it, North!” she curses.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I grumble, nearly pressed against her in the small bathroom, with only red light filling it. My gaze wanders around the cramped space, taking in the scene before me.
Pictures are clamped on a laundry wire strung across the bathroom, some hanging just over my head, carefully secured over a bucket, the sink, and the shower. It’s a makeshift darkroom of sorts, and I can’t help but be intrigued.
This is… different.
“I wanted to process some pictures I took of Tally and Tim while they were painting the nursery as a present for her baby shower,” she grumbles, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let’s just hope they aren’t ruined now.”
I furrow my brows. “I don’t know much about photography, but I spent enough time with Saylor to know that underdeveloped pictures would have to be exposed to light to get ruined. The hallway was dark when I opened the door.”
Why did I just mention Saylor?
I don’t remember the last time I said his name out loud.
The past suddenly feels as present as the red light washing over us.
Saylor would revel in this makeshift darkroom, the tangibility of film, the magic of an image appearing from nothing. But that was his world, not mine. And yet, here I am, staring at the dangling photographs, and it’s like I’m seeing through his eyes.
I lean back against the cool tiles. There is a tightness in my chest, an ache that I’ve kept at bay with silence, and now it threatens to spill over.
Glancing at Sloan, the catalyst to this unwelcome resurrection of memories, I feel a frown creasing my brow, the internal conflict surely written all over my face.
My hands curl into fists, an unconscious defense against the surge of emotions. A part of me wants to blame Sloan for this slip in my armor, for the rawness scraping at my insides. It’s irrational, but it is there, a simmering resentment that she has unearthed something I’ve worked so hard to bury.
“Fine, maybe you haven’t ruined them. But I’m not going to risk it, so you better get comfortable for the next fifteen minutes. You’re not leaving before they are fully developed.”
Fuck me.
The stillness of the cramped bathroom is full of tension and the acrid scent of developer fluid. Sloan’s words hang in the red-lit air between us, a challenge as much as a directive. “Fine,” I relent, letting out a breath that I hope sounds steadier than I feel.
Trapped in this confined space, every accidental touch sends a jolt through me. Our arms brush, and a ripple of something—annoyance, anticipation—surges through me.
I start to fidget, a restlessness taking hold, and so does she.
The silence stretches, taut as the wire above us.
I break it, attempting to engage her in conversation.
“So, you enjoy photography?” The words feel clumsy in my mouth, but anything to distract from the too-close warmth of her and lingering thoughts of Saylor.
Her laugh echoes slightly, and it scrapes against my nerves. “As if you’d care,” she says, a shadow of a smile in her voice that doesn’t reach the tense line of her shoulders.
“Not particularly,” I admit, “but we have fifteen minutes to kill.” It’s a poor attempt at nonchalance, and her breath against my neck belies the distance I’m trying to maintain.
She chuckles. “You’re such a dick.”
“Well?” I prod, needing her to fill the space with something other than this electric silence.
Biting her lip, she states, “Obviously.”
Sure, why would you make that easy for me? I won’t make anything easy for you either. “And do you just work with analog or digital as well?” I inquire, even though it’s clear she isn’t keen on chatting with me.
Why do I even care?
Maybe because I want to get to know her better.
I’m a fucking idiot.
“Just analog.” She shrugs.
I raise an eyebrow and jest, “So, do you always process your pictures in other people’s bathrooms?”
She responds casually, “Usually, I do it in my van, but that’s not an option right now.”
I glance around once more, taking in the bucket between our feet and the old laundry wire above our heads. “You do this inside your van?” I ask her skeptically.
How would that even work?
“Yeah, well, I’d prefer to have a house with my own darkroom as well, but let’s be honest, that’s not in the cards for me, so my van and other people’s bathrooms it is,” she states with a hint of resignation. “What about you? What do you enjoy doing? I mean, do you even enjoy doing anything?”
That makes me chuckle slightly.
Oh, I would absolutely enjoy doing you.
“I… like to run?”
“Running is not something you enjoy,” she huffs out, reaching to examine one of the photos.
“What is it then? You run too,” I note, wondering why she does it so often if she doesn’t enjoy it. Maybe she’s just vain and wants to maintain her figure.
Her beautiful, toned, yet curvy figure.
“I do it to clear my head. I like that I don’t have to think about anything while I run. But I can’t say I enjoy the running itself.”
Huh. Same.
“Fine, it looks like I don’t enjoy anything after all,” I tell her with a hint of amusement. “How’s the ankle, by the way?”
It’s something I’ve wanted to ask her for days now, but it always felt wrong to bring it up or just talk to her so casually in general.
“It’s fine, thank you. How is the car?”
“You’re asking me how my car is?” I furrow my brows at her.
The side of her lip lifts just the tiniest bit before she deadpans. “Why shouldn’t I? I like your car more than I like you.”
Oh, you did not.
I chuckle. “Well, I think my car likes you more than I like you too.”
“Whatever you say, Satan.” She huffs, rolling her eyes.
There is that nickname again.
“Why ‘Satan’ anyway?” I ask, still not having figured out why I earned that one.
Besides being an absolute asshole to her.
“Ask Tally,” she deflects with a shrug.
I miss that little minx hanging around the house all the time. She’s fun and nice, and at least she has a reason to hate me.
“So, is all of this for her?” I ask, gesturing around the bathroom at the pictures.
“It’s for her, Tim, and their baby shower in two weeks. I don’t have the money for anything else as a present.”
“That’s nice of you,” I mumble, and she furrows her brow at me. “Do you know if they might need some other stuff for the baby? I think we have a lot left from Lio, and I bet we could fix them up a bit.”
“That would be amazing. Most of their money goes into the renovation of the house, so there is a shortage of a little of everything.”
“True,” I mutter, making a mental note to give Tim a raise. He’s earned it. He’s one of our best captains and a good team player.
“You really can be decent.” Sloan looks at me critically as if just realizing it now, but her concession feels almost like a truce, an acknowledgment of some common ground.
“I thought we already established that.” I cock an eyebrow at her.
“Yeah, but I didn’t really believe it.”
As Sloan inspects her pictures once more, I lean against the sink, watching her. This encounter, this forced intimacy, makes me reflect on things I usually shove aside. There’s a weight to the silence that follows her last comment, a weight I feel in my chest.
I’m not used to this, to caring about what someone thinks of me. But here I am, caught in a web of my own making.
The timer dings, signaling the end of the wait, but the spell isn’t completely broken as her gaze finds mine. “You can go now,” she breathes out, but I hesitate, my whole body wanting to step closer and not leave.
I force it to listen and mutter, “Night,” before I turn and open the door.