Chapter 19
NINETEEN
Nova
I watch his back recede as he strides down the hallway, thinking it’s not nearly as sexy as the night before.
Thinking that this actually hurts—his words, his derision, the sight of him walking away—almost as much as walking in on Ashley and George had.
Thinking that I don’t give a fuck if it’s snowing outside, I need out of this house, and I need it now.
I hop down, nearly landing on Steve, having to do some fancy footwork in order to avoid killing my precious pooch. But nearly committing pupicide is the blast of normal I need. I’m able to focus, to get a series of tasks together so that I can function.
“Breathe, Nova,” I whisper, nudging Steve back so I can pick up the towel.
I walk to the door, finish mopping up the puddles gathered there then carry it back and toss it into the washer. On my way back to the kitchen, I spy Steve’s bowl and remember hearing it clang to the floor distantly while Lake had—
Made use of skills that weren’t his branch.
But were as good—better—than the rumors Ella had shared with me.
The metal bowl is overturned on the floor, and I lift it up, revealing a few stray kibbles. For the most part, though, I see that Steve has made good of his vacuum skills.
He’s eaten.
Now he needs water.
And then he’ll need his vitamins and a walk to use the facilities.
Which is perfect. I’ll bring my camera, use it as an excuse to build my portfolio to pass some time, to pretend that what had just happened hadn’t actually happened.
Step one in letting things roll off my back again.
Step one—or two, rather—in regaining myself, my spine, my confidence.
“Yay, me,” I mutter, picking up the bowl and setting it on the counter then grabbing the little ceramic basin that serves as Steve’s water dish and moving to the sink.
I fill it with water, snag one of the dish towels I washed the night before, spread the cotton on the floor, and place the bowl on top of it.
Hopefully, in a place I won’t trip over it and spill it everywhere.
That might stain this beautiful wood, might cause some of the gorgeous, hand-scraped planks to swell and morph, to grow misshapen.
That’ll serve him right.
I narrow my eyes in the direction of the hall then decide that’s not helpful to my pretending this all doesn’t hurt, that this all is totally fine and I’m unbothered, so I force my expression to smooth out and go to my bags, pull out my snow boots, snag my winter coat.
I’m not a total idiot—even if I missed the whole Snowmageddon thing.
I knew I was driving up to the mountains in the middle of winter, so I made sure I packed the necessary garments.
Something that wasn’t hard to do, considering I was packing up my entire life.
Still, I made sure they ended up near the top of one of the bags, so…winning?
And whether my Bay Area heavy coat and boots will hold up to the blizzard still pumping out snow outside the house is another story.
I’m going to find out, aren’t I?
Steve’s harness and leash, jacket and booties are next and he drools all over me as I get everything on—remnants of scrounging up those last couple of kibbles and attempting to drink his water dish dry before he heard the jingle jangle of his leash and abandoned all searching for consumables in lieu of the potential to bark at a squirrel or a plastic bag.
I wipe my arm on my pants and decide to swap them out for something thicker.
See? I can think ahead.
Can pause without rushing stupidly headfirst.
So says the girl who was nearly fucked on the counter by a man I barely know all of five minutes earlier.
At least I got an orgasm out of it.
Jeans on. Jacket over my shirt and hoodie. Thick socks on my feet. Waterproof boots on.
Camera over my shoulder, extra battery and memory card in my zippered pocket.
Beanie on my head.
Ready to brave the blizzard outside.
I look down at my baby. “Let’s go, Steve.”
His tongue lolls as he trots over to me, leash dragging behind him, tags on his harness tinkling as he meets me by the front door.
I tug it wide, feel the cold gust of wind.
It cuts through my layers, a frozen razor blade glancing over my skin. But it’s too cold for me to bleed, all of the blood in my body leaving my limbs and coalescing deep in my belly, hidden in that safe spot buried beneath layers and layers of protection.
For a second, I had thought—
Well, it doesn’t matter.
I know better now.
I know it’s the same as always.
Which is why I snag Steve’s leash and we walk out the front door.
Halfway down the street, I notice the wind dying down, the snow slowing its fall.
The world is quieting.
I don’t know if the storm has passed, or if this is just a break in the winter pounding—which is so not a good reference to have running through my mind after Kitchen Counter-Gate.
But the slowing blizzard means that I feel comfortable pulling my camera out from beneath my jacket and framing a shot in my mind, snapping off a couple of photos to test the light and exposure and shutter speed.
Steve huffs out a sigh and sinks onto his belly, head dropping onto his paws, hood from his jacket half falling forward to cover his adorably smooshed-up face.
He doesn’t otherwise bug me as I fuss.
Probably because the squirrels are in hiding and there aren’t any plastic bags blowing in the wind—or maybe because he’s been out with me shooting enough times to understand this process goes a lot faster when he behaves.
I tweak the settings, take a couple more shots then look at the viewfinder.
Nose wrinkling, I glare at the tree, thinking it’s not quite right but unable to put my finger on what’s wrong.
I shift to the side, letting the leash out so Steve doesn’t have to move with me.
And I keep shooting.
Better.
Close to perfect.
Just not…perfect.
Another shift, a little less exposure, increasing the shutter speed, and—
Then I have it.
That perfect moment.
The one frame that captures exactly what’s in my heart—frost and snow and branches weighed down by the weight of Mother Nature, by the weight of the world, but not all hope is lost. There’s a sliver of light that glimmers through the snow still falling, that sends the snow clinging to the pine needles sparkling like glitter.
So much white.
It’s all around, from street level to the treetops.
But there’s so much color in this white— hints of blue from hidden pockets of ice, the pristine, crisp bone-white that’s gathered at the tippy tops of the trees, grayish shadows from where the snow has mounded up unevenly and created small pockets of darkness below, green from the pine needles peeking out beneath their frosty coverings.
Together it all forms a storybook showing of a Winter Wonderland.
And once I see those different shades of white, the beauty in the range of coloration, in the variations of Mother Nature herself, I fall into my work.
I lose track of time and space.
I lose track of myself.