Krystal
Nick’s heavy arm is strewn across my body. The room is pitch black as my eyes flutter open, lashes heavy with exhaustion. My throat is dry — rough like I’ve been screaming. The fog of inertia begins to clear, and it all comes flooding back to me.
Climbing into the back seat.
My knees raw from pressing into the leather seats of the Bronco.
Waking up hours later to the engine of a snowplow riding by.
We were supposed to attend the Festival of Lights, but it was postponed because of the storm. We ate dinner with the group before falling into bed together and then…the screaming.
I squint from the brightness of my phone as I check the time. It’s only three in the morning. The back of my throat itches, and I feel an incoming coughing fit. Slowly, I peel Nick’s arm off my naked belly, rustle around the piles of discarded clothes until I can piece together something decent.
A sigh of relief escapes me when I see the drink dispenser near the check-in desk filled with water.
Slices of lemon float around as my cup fills.
The cool liquid is a salve on my mouth and throat.
I’m not surprised at all that I’m dehydrated.
I use my free hand to massage the back of my neck as I play the night’s activities on a loop in my mind.
How did I go from not wanting men to even look my way to craving one so badly it gives me chills? I turn the cup up and gulp down the rest of the water, toss it in the nearby waste basket, and head back to the room.
I’m about to twist the doorknob — to climb back into bed with him.
My stomach drops, and my hand hovers in place when the thought crosses my mind — is this weird?
Maybe he won’t think so, but the way my heart races around the topic is enough of a reason to avoid testing the theory.
It wouldn’t be the first time I miscalculated a man’s feelings for me.
I’ll assume this is just sex until he tells me otherwise.
I say a silent thank you to my earlier self for leaving my room key in my back pocket, and turn to my room door. Then, a swift breeze swipes the back of my neck.
“Nick,” I gasp, spinning back around to face him. My eyes climb the length of his body. His thick chest, the six-pack adorning his torso, the tapered V leading into his baggy sweats — they feel like an invitation.
“You were gonna leave me without saying goodnight?” He asks. My heart stutters, because if I’m not mistaken, I hear a thread of hurt in his raspy voice.
“I-I didn’t want to wake you,” I explain.
His big brown eyes shine with disbelief. “I understand,” he nods, resting his shoulder on the doorjamb. A beat of silence pulses between us. For the first time since we met, it feels a bit awkward.
“Well,” I say, looking away from him. “Goodnight, Nick.”
He scoffs, shaking his head. My heart drops to another level.
I turn, clutching the key to my midsection as I take a step closer to my door.
Then, I feel his presence behind me. He doesn’t touch me, but there’s nothing I want more.
I want him to slide his hands over my hips and hold me close to his chest, to ask me to come back to bed.
I insert the key, and he takes another step forward.
My pulse spikes when he leans forward, leaving barely an inch of space between us.
His mouth rests beside my ear. “Do you want me to come to bed with you, Snowflake?” He asks.
My fingers tremble, tightening around the key so he doesn’t feel the effect he has on me.
It’s futile. He knows. He has to, because he squeezes my waist, rocking my body back into his.
I melt, releasing a breath of…relief? Satisfaction?
It doesn’t matter, because all my anxiety leaves with that movement, and I feel nothing less than certain in his arms.
“Tell me, tell me you want me,” he says.
“I want you to come to bed with me,” I sigh.
“Open the door, Snowflake.”
I twist the key, push the heavy door open, and step into the dark room with his arms still wrapped around me. He kisses the side of my neck, inhales my scent. The roots of connection spread in my heart, and I consider how painful it will be to rip them out in a few days.
Closing my eyes, I stop my thoughts from spiraling.
Despite what I’ve been through, I refuse to ruin this good thing, this necessary thing, by letting fear control my actions and derail my thoughts.
He leads me to the bed, but the action doesn’t feel sexual.
If I’m familiar with how that string of tension feels between us by now, I don’t think that’s what’s on either of our minds.
“Let me get undressed,” I say over my shoulder.
He nods, sitting on the mattress and watching me with a smile in his eyes that suck all the air out of my lungs. I change out of the satin pajama set I’m wearing and slip into some plain cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt with the Grinch on it.
“I have never regretted not having my camera on me more than I do right now,” he grins, shaking his head.
I suck my teeth, rolling my eyes. Truthfully, I love being in front of his lens.
I’m all for self-love and affirmations, and I never need a man to make me feel beautiful, but there’s another level of admiration that comes from inspiring an artist. He’s been capturing candid moments of me all week, some of them in moments where I felt so free — so untethered from all the bullshit in my life.
I will always be grateful to him for immortalizing them.
“How do you even discover you’re good at something like that? Photography?” I ask, the mattress sinking under my knee as I crawl into bed.
He falls backwards, his arms resting across his broad chest as he thinks about his response.
I bring my knees to my chest, resting my head against them as I watch him.
“I didn’t discover I was good at it. It’s more like I had the desire to be good at it.
With a little curiosity, dedication, and time, you can become good at almost anything,” he says.
“Hmm,” I look over to the robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door. “I never thought about it like that. What made you want to be good at it?”
“My mom was adamant about taking us to museums and art galleries once a month. One summer, we went to a Norman Rockwell exhibition. His art spoke to me, seeing those depictions of Jim Crow’s America.
It was impactful…but off. It was missing something.
I was standing there looking up at The Problem We All Live With and wondering what about it made it feel so detached.
An older girl, maybe in her early twenties, stepped up next to me.
It was like she could read my mind. She said, ‘It’s because it’s the white gaze.
He’s trying to highlight the pain of people he doesn’t relate to — he couldn’t. ’”
“She told me to look up the work of Gordon Parks, so I did. I signed up for the Dark Room elective the following semester at school and,” he shrugs, “the rest is history, I guess.”
“You downplay yourself,” I smile softly, although he can’t see it.
“Plenty of people have their interests piqued by something and don’t follow through.
You’ve not only built a successful career, but your stuff is really good, Nick.
I probably don’t have the right words to describe it.
I feel honored to be on the other end of your camera. ”
“Photography is cool, but film is where my heart is,” he says, tilting his head back so he can lock eyes with me. They sparkle in the dim lighting. I feel like crawling over and leaving a kiss on his lips, but I sit against the headboard instead.
“What about you? How does one end up a Pilates instructor?” He asks.
“Ugh,” I groan. “It sounds so insignificant next to ‘filmmaker.’” I spread my hands in an invisible marquee above my head, my cheeks burning.
“Nonsense,” he mutters, pulling himself up in an impressive motion. Our shoulders press into each other, the heat of our bodies melting into good comfort.
“It’s no special story or come-to-Jesus moment that led me here,” I huff an indignant chuckle.
“I had gained some weight that year, and my ex kept bringing it up. He ‘gifted’ me a yearly membership at a Pilates studio around the block from our apartment,” I explain, air-quotations around the word ‘gifted.’ He was an asshole for that, and I should have left him then.
“I actually fell in love with the way it made me feel. My eating habits didn’t change, so I didn’t lose the weight, but I kept going.
I noticed how some of the smaller women in the class looked at me like I didn’t belong.
When the studio invited us to take the class to become instructors, I jumped at the opportunity.
It turns out I love moving my body, and it’s so much easier to do that when you don’t have a bunch of elitist, fatphobic bitches trying to make you feel like you’re not supposed to,” I explain.
“Wait,” he says. “So you were the same size then, as you are now?”
“Yeah?” At 5’8, I’m a size 8 some days and some days I’m a size 12. I have never felt less beautiful for it, and I’m healthier than most people I know.
“Well, if it means anything, I think your body is perfect,” he says.
“Oh yeah?”
He whistles, brows knitted as he drags his eyes down the length of my body. Girly giggles bubble in my chest at his response, and the smile that blooms on his lips makes me feel like this was his goal.
We talk more about life and past experiences, but eventually, his eyes grow heavy and he falls asleep.
The sun is just starting to rise, and I don’t feel the least bit tired.
After finding my phone, I get my earbuds and search his name on my browser.
His photography is beautiful, but he speaks about film with such reverence… I’m eager to see his work.
A link to a documentary pops up: Epitaph.
I know from what he’s told me and the synopsis that this is a documentary about the year after his son died. Still, I don’t expect the bone-chilling opening that strikes me to my core.
The movie opens with a scene of a short, white casket being lowered into a freshly dug grave.
There seems to be a large crowd, singing Will You Be There by Michael Jackson as the casket falls deeper and deeper.
They’re loud, but not loud enough to drown out the wailing.
Over the song, you can hear the moaning cries — cries that I feel in the bottom of my belly, that can only come from a mother.
In the middle of the song’s climax, the scene cuts to Nick, sitting alone on one of the folding chairs, staring at the fresh soil piled on top of his son’s grave.
Tears burn the backs of my eyes when the scene changes again.
This framing is the same, his position is the same, the only thing different is the setting.
He sits now in a small dining room. There are dishes on the table, and the chairs are pulled away.
The energy of the space feels disheveled, and his eyes are empty.
The singing crowd returns, muffled this time as if the voices are filtered through a speaker or radio. “Come on, Nicholas. I asked you to stop watching it,” the voice pleads.
He continues staring blankly into the distance.
“Nicholas,” she says.
He doesn’t respond.
“Nick!” She screams, the shift in her voice makes me jump, and I try to stop the reaction so I don’t wake the man sleeping next to me. “Nicholas! Please,” she begs, her voice wet with tears, cracking. “You have to stop doing this…you can’t keep watching it over and over again,” she says.
Her voice carries on, but the video on the screen changes.
We see flashes from home videos, from when Juno was still alive.
Past Christmases, random moments caught on camera where he’s laughing uncontrollably, his first steps.
All the while, Marie carries on. “How could you sit here and watch this. Why did you even record it in the first place?”
When Nick doesn’t respond, her anger rages.
Her voice rises with every inquiry and accusation.
“This isn’t normal!” She screams. “He’s dead!
Our son is dead!” When this doesn’t illicit a response either, she adds, “You’re sick, you know that?
Something is wrong with you! Are—are you recording this right now? ”
The screen fades to black, and the title rolls across the screen.
I hit pause, only ten minutes in, and reckless tears already streak across my skin.
I look over at him, his face serene as his chest rises and falls.
My heart breaks for him. The longer I watch him, the more I recognize the features he passed down to his son.
I wonder how difficult it must be to look in the mirror and see reminders that the most important person in the world is gone.
My chest caves, the genesis of a sob forming behind my ribs. I slap an open palm over my mouth to muffle the sound. I’ve never been a mother, but I feel the depth of such a loss in the marrow of my bones, and even then I can’t imagine — don’t want to imagine the pain he must have felt.
I nestle into his side, let my tears mingle with the chemistry of his body.
Still sleeping, he wraps his arm around me and pulls me close.
I cry silently into his chest, snaking my arm around his waist and squeezing him back.
I shouldn’t need to be comforted, but the warmth of his skin and steady heartbeat grounds my emotions.
I feel safe here, I feel seen, even in the unconsciousness of his actions.
I’m so grateful to have met him, to have him now, even if I only get a few more days with him. But if I could rewind time, even if it means we would never have this Christmas together…I would give back to him everything he’s lost in a heartbeat.