Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Sure, go for it.”
I sit on the couch in the middle of the room and watch him as he goes through the stacks that contain years of work. I have undeveloped film collecting dust in a couple of boxes because I’ve grown cynical or maybe bored of it. I still don’t know which.
My stomach churns as I watch for any reactions that may give away what he thinks of me and my art. It’s disconcerting hanging back while he gets a bird’s-eye view of stuff that’s close to my heart.
“So many good shots of the ocean and the beach,” he finally says.
I blow out a breath. “Yeah, it’s not hard on the eyes.”
“And wait.” His back stiffens. “Is this another one of those curses?”
“Huh?”
He pulls up a framed photo from the year when a waxy, solid substance resembling gray or amber rocks washed up on the beach. I’d forgotten all about them. “That’s ambergris. It comes from sperm whales, which have been spotted in this area. It’s produced in their digestive system. But whales are a protected class, so I was only allowed to get so close before they cordoned off the area.”
He marvels at it. “Why would it wash up like this?”
“No one really knows. It was during the breeding season, so maybe it’s related to that. Maybe it’s what draws their mate. And apparently, the stuff is valuable. It’s used in some perfumes.”
“No way!” he exclaims.
I scrunch my nose. “The smell is a cross between sandalwood and putrid musk.”
“Putrid?” He laughs. “So you wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it?”
I hold my hand to my nose as if reliving how the beach reeked for weeks. “Hell no.”
“See, I told you—a curse.” He chuckles. “Though, how can something that amazing be a curse?”
He’s doing it again, like the day on the trail, rubbing something in his pocket.
“Do you keep something in there?” I ask, motioning to his hip.
“Oh, um…” His cheeks color. “I wandered into Beth’s store after getting my hiking boots. She gave me this crystal and read my energy or whatever.”
“Why am I not surprised?” I mutter.
His eyebrows knit together. “Let me guess, you don’t believe in any of that shit?”
I look away. “Maybe I did at one time. Or I believed in the power of manifestation or prayer or the idea that you can control your own destiny. But not anymore.”
He frowns as if he’s tapping into my energy in this moment.
I clear my throat. “Did she read you properly?”
“I suppose? She said I was nervous about something, but isn’t everyone?”
“Yeah, I suppose. Most people are looking for any sort of help or hope when it comes to their lives.”
“True. But I’m not opposed to it if it brings someone peace.”
He studies me as if waiting for me to tell him the story about Beth and why my whole disposition changed at the mention of her name. But I’m not going to do that.
Though I can’t help wondering what Aaron has to be nervous about. Was it asking me to sell my business? Maybe I’ve read him all wrong. He hasn’t pushed the topic since.
Thankfully, there’s a change in subject. “So when you develop film, how does that work?”
“It’s a process, each step essential.” I motion toward the bottle of stop bath near the sink, where I keep my makeshift darkroom, and explain the best I can how the chemicals work together in the developer.
“So it needs to be completely dark in here?”
“Well, except for the amber light. Otherwise, it’ll ruin the exposure.”
“Fascinating.” He gives all the supplies another long look. “How did you become interested in photography?”
“My parents bought me a camera, and then I took a class in high school.”
He glances toward one of the piles of photos I keep in protective sleeves, then rummages through until he lifts a photo of an attractive middle-aged couple.
“Is this your mom and dad?”
“Yeah.” My chest tightens. Fuck, I miss them.
“Johnny’s the spitting image of him.”
My throat feels dry. “Everyone always said that.”
His smile is sad. “You and June seem to favor your mom.”
The room grows quiet, and suddenly, it all feels too real, too much.
I pace toward the back corner of the studio, the shock of that day returning, snapshots running through my head. The police and divers and yellow tape. Even the candlelight vigils organized by Beth for the town residents felt surreal, torturous. And don’t even get me started on all her talk about the candles and chants bringing positive energy. She should’ve known better. Making us hang on to hope when we should’ve started facing reality and grieving.
Aaron abruptly replaces the photos, likely recognizing the shift in the temperature of the room.
“Thank you for showing me your art. It’s not lost on me how hard that was for you.” He turns toward the door. “I think it’s time to call it a night. I can see myself out.”