Chapter 16
sixteen
THEO
The light in Hollow Vale arrived with an agenda that afternoon.
It was late, that bruised hour when the sun dipped low enough to catch the grit in the air, turning the suspended dust into a million microscopic flecks of gold.
I watched Oleander through the viewfinder of my Leica, my finger hovering over the shutter, waiting for the moment he stopped looking like a man ready to bolt into the fog.
We were standing in the shadow of an old Victorian on the edge of the East Side, a house that was leaning so far into its own rot that the porch steps had detached from the earth.
Oleander was framed by a trellis of dead wisteria, his dark hair catching the backlit glow, looking like he'd forgotten how to occupy the space his body took up.
"Let me shoot you," I said. The words were out before I could filter them.
Oleander flinched, his shoulders hiking toward his ears. "No. I don't... I'm not really the type for that, Theo." He looked down at his hands, his fingers twisting the silver earring in his left ear, a nervous habit I'd catalogued three days ago.
"You don't have to look at them," I said, stepping closer. "You don't even have to look at me. Just exist."
He let out a breath that sounded like a surrender, his posture sagging against the peeling white paint of the trellis. "Fine. But if I look like a ghost, it's your fault."
"In this town, looking like a ghost is just good camouflage," I murmured.
I moved in, my hand reaching out to tilt his chin up.
My skin touched his, just a brush of my thumb against the underside of his jaw, and a spark of heat climbed up my arm.
He was warm, unexpectedly so, given how cold the air was turning.
I adjusted him with small, deliberate touches. A hand on his shoulder to angle him into the light, my fingers pressing through the fabric of his coat to feel the tension in his muscles. If I kept it technical, I didn't have to deal with the way my chest felt tight every time he looked at me.
Through the viewfinder, Oleander was devastating. His face in repose held a sadness that was so unguarded it felt like a confession. I clicked the shutter, the mechanical sound rhythmic and steady.
I moved around him, the camera an extension of my own body. He looked like a man who had spent a long time being owned and was only now realizing he was free.
I shot thirty frames in rapid succession, the light fading from gold to a deep, bloody orange. When the sun finally dipped below the treeline and the grey took over, I lowered the camera, my hands shaking just slightly.
"Can I see?" Oleander asked, his voice small. He stepped toward me, peering at the small digital screen on the back of the Leica as I toggled through the playback.
The first few were perfect. Beautiful. The corrupted frames were there again. Closer this time. I flicked past them before he could see. I found a clean one, a close-up of his face where he looked almost peaceful, and held it out.
"You're hard to capture," I said, my voice sounding more steady than I felt. "You keep disappearing behind your own face."
"I don't look like that," he said.
"You do from where I'm standing," I said.
I set the camera down on the sagging porch railing, the expensive equipment forgotten. I reached out and took his face in both of my hands. My palms were hot against his skin, and I could feel the way his breath hitched.
I kissed him. He tasted like the mint he'd been chewing and the cold afternoon air. For a second, he didn't move. Then his hands came up to grip my wrists, his fingers digging into my skin, and he kissed me back with a desperation that made my head swim.
I pulled back just an inch, my forehead resting against his. "Sorry," I breathed, my eyes still closed. "No, actually, I'm not. I've wanted to do that since the diner."
Oleander let out a startled laugh, his hands sliding down to rest on my chest.
"You're a very strange man, Theo," he said, his smile genuine for the first time. It was a fragile thing, but it was there. I looked past him, toward the dark wisteria, and felt something protective settle into my chest. Whatever was following him, I wanted to be the reason he kept looking forward.
"I'm a photographer," I said, pulling him closer. "We see things other people miss."