Chapter 15 Pickle #2
"He keeps getting extensions to stay longer. Said the footage is worth it."
"The footage."
Hog was quiet. That meant he would choose his next words carefully.
"Can I tell you something?" he said.
"Is it about yarn? If it's about yarn, I'm not sure I'm emotionally prepared—"
"It's not about yarn."
I shut up.
As he turned toward me, his face was half-lit by the streetlight, all shadow and beard and those steady eyes that saw more than they should.
"The camera," he said slowly, "shows what the person holding it wants to show."
I blinked.
"Doesn't matter what's real or what happened. What ends up on screen is whatever the person behind it decides matters." He paused. "Make sure you know what he's pointing it at."
"Adrian's not—" I started.
"I'm not saying he's anything. I'm saying a camera's not neutral. Neither is the person using it. And you're—" He paused. "You give people everything, Pickle. You put it all out there hoping they'll catch it."
"That's a very poetic way of saying I have no filter."
"It's a way of saying it's easy to hurt you."
I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets.
"He's not going to hurt me."
"Maybe not." Hog shrugged—a massive, slow movement. "Maybe he's exactly what you think he is. I hope so. I'm just saying—keep your eyes open. Know the difference between what you're seeing and what you're being shown."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to list all the evidence, but…
Adrian's phone. The salt shakers I couldn't stop straightening. The hum in my chest that wouldn't quit.
"I hear you," I said finally. "I do. I just—I'm trying to trust it. The good stuff. I'm trying not to ruin it by waiting for the crash."
Hog clapped my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. Grounding.
"That's good," he said. "Just don't trust so hard you stop paying attention."
He squeezed once, then let go and turned back toward the door.
"You coming back in?"
"In a minute."
He nodded and disappeared inside, leaving me alone with the cold and the dumpster.
I stood there until my fingers went numb, then went back inside and laughed at Desrosiers' jokes and pretended I wasn't keeping count.
***
Adrian showed up at my apartment at nine with Thai takeout and shadows under his eyes.
"You didn't have to bring food," I said, taking the bag from him. "I have food. I have—" I glanced toward my kitchen. "Okay, I have half a jar of pickles and something that might be cheese. But still."
"I wanted to." He stepped inside, shrugging off his jacket. His movements were slower than usual. I set the takeout on the counter and turned to face him.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." He reached out to touch my cheek with his fingers. "I just wanted to see you."
"You saw me four hours ago."
"I wanted to see you again."
He kissed me.
It was different from our usual. Slower. His mouth moved against mine like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it. One hand stayed on my cheek; the other slid around to the small of my back, pulling me closer.
"What's this?" I asked when we broke apart.
"What's what?"
"This." I gestured vaguely at the space between us. "You're being soft."
"Is that bad?"
"No. It's just—different."
"Maybe I want to be different tonight," he said.
He kissed me again. Deeper. His fingers threaded into my hair, tilting my head back, and I let him—let him move, position, and hold me. Usually, I pushed to speed things up. Instead, I let Adrian set the pace.
When we made it to the bedroom, his weight settled over me, and I tugged at his shirt.
"Off. This needs to be off immediately."
He silenced me with his mouth. Pulled back just long enough to strip the shirt over his head, then returned to kissing me like I was oxygen and he'd been holding his breath.
He spread his fingers over my ribs and then slid them down to my hips. I squirmed under him, impatient, and he pressed me down with one hand flat on my stomach.
"Stay," he murmured against my throat.
"I'm not good at staying. I'm a motion-based organism—"
"Pickle."
"Yeah?"
"Let me." His lips found the pulse point below my jaw.
I froze.
"Okay," I whispered. "Okay."
He undressed me slowly. Each piece of clothing removed with care. When he got to my boxers—the ones with the cartoon penguins—he paused.
"Penguins," I said. "They mate for life."
"You told me about the pebbles."
He remembered. He pulled the boxers down, and I was naked.
"You're staring," I said.
"I'm looking."
"Same thing."
"Not the same thing." He lowered himself over me, skin to skin. When he pressed into me, he was watching my face the whole time.
"Good?" he asked.
"Yeah. So good."
He started to move. Slow. Deep. "I've got you."
I've got you.
Three words. Simple. They landed in my gut and stayed there.
"Adrian," I breathed. Just his name, because I needed to say it.
"I'm here," he said. "I'm right here."
He shifted his angle, and I gasped. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. We moved together, his rhythm steady, building me toward that inevitable moment.
"You're thinking," he said.
"I'm always thinking."
"What about?"
"Right now?" I managed a breathless laugh. "I'm thinking that you're the first person who ever made my brain shut up. Like, actually quiet. That's—" I gasped as he moved again and started a grinding motion. "That's never happened before. It's weird. I don't know what to do without all the noise."
In the silence, there was just this: I want to be someone he stays for.
He kissed me, softly.
"You don't have to do anything," he said. "Be here."
I did my best to let go of my thinking, the endless interior monologue.
When I came, it was quieter than usual. A slow, rolling wave instead of a crash, pulling me under while Adrian followed, his whole body shaking against mine.
His weight pressed me into the mattress as he buried his face in my neck. His breath came in ragged bursts against my skin.
"Hey," I said softly.
He didn't answer. Just held on.
"I've got you too," I whispered into his hair. "You know that, right? It goes both ways."
"I know," he said, but he didn't loosen his grip.
The sheets were a disaster. We lay in the wreckage, breathing. My head was on his chest, and his arm was around my shoulders.
My brain decided to fill the silence.
"Did you know the inventor of the Pringles can is buried in one?"
Adrian's chest rumbled beneath my ear. "That can't be true."
"Fredric Baur. Designed the iconic tubular container, loved it so much he had his ashes put in one. His kids had to stop at Walgreens on the way to the funeral." I considered this. "I respect that level of commitment to a brand."
"Is this what happens inside your head?"
"This is the edited version."
He moved his hand to my hair, stroking with his fingers.
"You're ridiculous," he said.
"Thank you. I try."
Why is his grip getting tighter?
The thought arrived without invitation.
"Hey." I lifted my head and looked at him. "What's going on in there?"
For a long moment, he didn't answer.
"There are some things," he said slowly. "With the documentary. Complications I'm trying to work out."
"Still complicated?" I kept my voice steady. "What does that mean? For us?"
"It means I need a little more time. To figure it out. Can you give me that?"
I knew that I could push. Part of me wanted to, but—
He was asking. Waiting to find out if I trusted him.
Keep your eyes open, Hog had said. Know the difference between what you're seeing and what you're being shown.
I was seeing Adrian. Tired. Scared. Holding onto me like I was the only solid thing in a tilting world.
"Okay," I said. "Yeah. I can give you time."
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"But Adrian—" I waited until his eyes locked on mine. "Whatever it is. Whatever's going on. You can tell me. When you're ready. I'm not going to freak out." I paused. "I mean, I might freak out. I'm excellent at freaking out. But I can freak out and handle things. That's multitasking."
He shook his head. "Just give me a little more time. Please."
"Okay." I lowered myself back down, tucking my head under his chin. He wrapped his arms around me immediately. "If you're secretly a vampire, I want to know soon. Or a federal agent. Or three smaller documentary filmmakers in a trench coat."
He laughed—surprised and genuine.
"I'm not a vampire."
"You'd say that even if you were a vampire."
"I'm also not three smaller filmmakers."
"The trench coat would be a giveaway. You don't own a trench coat." I yawned—huge, jaw-cracking yawn.
"Go to sleep, Pickle."
"I'm just saying, I've seen movies. The love interest always turns out to be hiding something."
"My past isn't dark. It's just sad."
I pressed closer against him.
"Sad's okay," I said. "Sad I can work with, but please don't be secretly evil. That would really mess up my whole plan."
"What plan?"
"The plan where I keep you." I yawned again, the world going soft at the edges. "Very elaborate. Involves Thai food and excellent sex and eventually getting you to admit that Thunder Bay is superior to Chicago in every way."
"It's growing on me."
He raked his fingers through my hair. "Rest," he said. "I've got you."
I let my eyes close, let the exhaustion pull me down.
The last thing I registered before sleep took me: Adrian's grip hadn't loosened.
He was still holding on and still awake.
He's holding me like something's about to break.
I fell asleep anyway because I trusted him.
Eyes open, I told myself. I'm choosing this with my eyes open.
But my eyes were closed, and Adrian was still awake, and somewhere in the distance, Lake Superior lapped against the shore—patient, indifferent, keeping its secrets to itself.