by Karina Halle
This time it won’t be so bad since Shay is still here, even though I don’t know how long she plans on sticking around. I’m not exactly offering her an exciting life here, and I know there’s so much more of the country that she wants to see. I wish I could find a way to take her around myself, but short of Uncle Per hiring someone else, I’m not sure it could work.
Besides, even though I’m catching more and more of these coy, flirtatious looks from Shay, noticing the way she leans in to talk to me, the way she touches me, whether hitting me playfully or just brushing my shoulder when she walks by, I’m not sure if she’d want to see Norway with me at her side. Though she’s much more comfortable around me now, and even starts talking about innocuous events from the past, I know the odds of her leaving with our relationship completely repaired are slim.
Above all, I’m not even sure if we have a relationship. We’re definitely friends more than first loves and ex-lovers, and that’s probably the right way to go about it.
But still, sometimes I want nothing more than to grab her, kiss her, ask her if she remembers what it was like to love me, to want me. It’s pure selfishness on my behalf, but these feelings are really starting to fuck with me.
I’ve even started writing again like I used to, just a few lines before bed. It’s all shit, as usual, but the fire is there, the flames growing. She’s as inspiring as she ever was, and I don’t have to grab for a Bukowski book to find the drive and ideas. Just looking at her causes the clouds to move, the earth to shift beneath my feet, for that electricity that begets creation to seep through my veins.
I feel like I’m a fucking teenager all over again, for better and for worse.
Back then I was such a mess. Sometimes when I feel like my life has disintegrated like the rusted chains on my boat, all I have to do is think back to those days in high school. Shay was the only thing holding me together, a girl that loved me with all her young heart, and yet even she wasn’t enough to keep me from total destruction.
I was an awful person, through and through. The worst part is that was just the start. After I left New York and came back here, my downward spiral became quicker, deeper, until I was a shell of myself.
And yet, through it all, I still wrote. Even on my darkest days, I wrote. The journals that are stacked in shoeboxes under my bed are proof of that, proof that my deepest pain produced the most art. I’m not saying it was all good. My words as a teenager are mired in purple prose and dramatics as I tried to figure out what I meant to Shay and what she meant to me and how the two of us were in a world alone, dancing until there was nothing left between us. But the fire was there.
And now it’s back, because she’s back.
I just don’t know what it means. If having her here is bringing us back to the way we used to be during that turbulent, soul-scarring, formative year, or that I’m foreseeing the way things will end between us…again.
“Anders?”
I look up from my desk to see Shay standing in the doorway, looking so fucking sweet and unsure at the same time that my dick immediately jumps to attention.
I clear my throat. “Come on in.”
She hesitates before she steps inside, and it’s then that I notice she’s holding two bottles of beer. Says a lot about how much her beauty steals my attention when I don’t even notice the alcohol in her hands.
“Astrid told me to drink all her leftover beer,” Shay says. “I figured you could use one. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
She stops beside me, her eyes drifting over the closed journal, the pencil in my hand. I always write in pencil. I hate the permanency of ink. My thoughts are as fluid as the sea, no use making them last. I figure that’s what tattoos are for.
“You’re not,” I tell her, offering a smile.
She hands me the beer, our fingers brushing. My heart glows electric, though I sense a bit of sadness in Shay’s demeanor.
“Miss them already?” I ask her, meaning Astrid and Lise. I think Shay was fairly upset about their departure. She really seemed to hit it off with my sisters, Astrid especially, and there were a lot of hugs before Lise’s friend drove them into Trondheim.
Honestly, I thought maybe Shay would have gone with them, but she’s still here. Now, with the buffer of my sisters gone, it feels like the house is just a little smaller, and the two of us are a little closer.
“A bit,” she says. “But you’re not bad company.”
I’ll take that as a win.
“So what did you want to do tonight?” I ask her, after a sip of beer. “I know that Astrid was usually in charge of planning the nightly festivities.”
Shay laughs and sits on the edge of my bed, a dangerous sight.
“This is the nightly festivity,” she says, raising her beer in show.
I twist in my chair to face her properly, taking my time to study her face. She’s nervous, just a little. She still bites her lip when she’s anxious, tries to push her bangs behind her ears to no avail. She’s squirming a little under my gaze, just like she used to. But back then I liked that I made her uncomfortable. I wanted a reaction out of her, even if it was negative. Something that let me know that she saw me for all that I was, the good and the bad, even though I felt there was very little good left.
Now, I just want to make the right impression. To make her smile, laugh, to see those eyes dance, knowing that I’m giving her an elusive taste of happiness.
But, as usual, I’m reading too much into things, forever locked in my own head.
I get up and stride over to her, then drop to my knees. She looks at me in surprise until I reach under my bed and pull out a low container. While most of my journals are in shoeboxes, this is where my cameras live, as well as little odds and ends that have caught my eye over the years.
“What’s all that?” she asks, leaning forward.
“Where my cameras sleep,” I tell her. I pick up a vintage Pentax, the same one I used back in high school. I hold it out for her, and she takes it from me. “Look familiar?”
“No way,” she says, turning it over in her hands. She pops the lens cap off and looks through the viewfinder. “You still have this.”
I stare directly into the camera, hoping she likes what she sees. “Of course.”
She lowers it after a moment and gives me a pensive look. “You know, I was so in awe of you back then. Your art, what you were able to create.”
I shrug, turning my attention back to the bin, rummaging for more things to show her. “Just a punk ass kid,” I tell her. “I’d hardly call it art.” To prove my point, I grab a stack of large black-and-white prints and hand them to her. “Try taking a look now, from a new perspective. You’ll see they’re garbage.”
She puts the camera down beside her and starts flipping through the photos. Her brows raise, eyes wide. “Oh my god. Anders.”
She flips the photograph over. It’s one of her, sitting on the corner of her bed in her bedroom, much in the same way she’s sitting right now, with one leg tucked up under her. In the photo her hair hangs in her face in the way she used to do, pretending to be that creepy girl from The Ring, but there’s a slice of her face visible. Round cheek, wide innocent eye, a coy smile. That part is in focus while everything else is a little blurred.
“I can’t believe you have this still,” she says, turning it back over and marveling at it. “My bedroom. Oh, that tank top. I loved that tank top.” She looks at me. “What do you mean this isn’t art?”
“If it’s art, it’s only because the subject is,” I tell her, trying to find the strap for the camera. “Otherwise, it’s too dull. You’re the only thing saving it. It’s grainy, the contrast is low, too monotonous. I didn’t know anything. Thought I knew everything.”
I can feel her eyes on me, her gaze burning and inquisitive, but I keep my head down. She starts flipping through the rest of the photos. “Oh my god, it’s you and me at the Christmas parade. Remember I dragged you to that and it started late so we had to w
ait in the cold forever? Who took the picture? My sister?”
“I doubt it. I only met your sister a few times,” I remind her. Even though we spent ninety-five percent of the time at Shay’s house, her sister was either studying in her room or out, while we basically just stayed in Shay’s bedroom. Shay’s parents weren’t even in the US, so it was like every teenage boy’s dream when it came to having a girlfriend. No parents to try to impress, no sneaking around. No one to care.
The funny thing was, it kind of bothered me on some level. Like I wanted to be accepted by Shay’s sister, Hannah, or wanted to be introduced to her parents. I guess because I wasn’t accepted at all in my mother and stepfather’s house, I was looking for family elsewhere.
“Huh,” she muses, moving onto the next photo. “Right. Everly must have taken it. You know, I’m surprised you still have these.”
I glance up at her, frowning. “Why?”
She gives me a quick smile. “I don’t know. I guess when I heard you left I just pictured you leaving every trace of me, of the school, of everything behind.”
I feel the blackened guilt roll through me as it sometimes does. I pick up my beer and the camera strap and then I sit on the bed on the other side of the Pentax. “Believe it or not, I didn’t want to go.” I pause. “After we broke up, everything fell apart. Getting expelled was the last straw, especially so damn close to finishing school. My mother kicked me out. Said she couldn’t handle me anymore. I had a couple of days before she booked my flight back to Oslo. Part of me wanted to just move on, but I couldn’t. I knew you hated me and yet…I couldn’t let you go.” I stare at her, unsure how I’ll get her to see how sorry I am about the way I treated her. “I was a different person Shay, I never meant to hurt you. I—”
“Stop,” she says quickly, eyes flashing. She raises her beer defensively, like a barrier between us. “Please. Just stop. It’s in the past. What happened, happened, and you’re right. We were different people.”
That’s what she says, but it doesn’t explain the way she keeps her distance from me, like she thinks I’m going to screw her over again, it doesn’t explain that I can feel her anger at times, her disappointment in me. People say that you have to move on, but so many of us are tied to the past, even when we know we should let it go. Shay may say we should let bygones be bygones, but there’s something deep inside her that doesn’t want her to. Won’t let her.
And I want to know why that is.
I want to know why, when she looks at me, there’s still this battle, this war behind her eyes, like she won’t ever be able to forgive me and yet wishes she could. Is it a pride thing? Or did I hurt her in ways I can’t even imagine? After so many years, none of this should matter anymore, and yet…
I reach out for the camera and clip on the strap, then hold it out for her. “Here. This is yours now.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I told you I have a lot of cameras and I know that you need one.”
“This is a film camera, Anders.”
“So? Don’t you believe in the magic of that anymore? The wait to see what you’ve captured?”
She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “I take a picture and I post it to Instagram right away. There is no waiting with me.”
“That’s not true,” I tell her. “You take many, many, many photos, then you edit the photos, then you post. You’ve learned a little bit about patience. You just have to stretch it out more. Don’t you know how good delayed gratification feels? When you finally get what you’ve been waiting for?”
My voice is husky now, and from the way that pink is creeping up on her cheeks, I can tell she feels all the innuendo I’ve loaded into those sentences. Still, she doesn’t bite. She has more patience than she realizes.
She clears her throat. “I can’t accept this camera.”
“Please,” I tell her, and I reach out, closing my hand over hers, pressing it against the Pentax. I’m leaning in close, the smell of her shampoo making my heart skip a beat, my blood to run hot. “This is yours now. My gift to you. It’s the least I can do.”
She rubs her lips together, staring deep into my eyes. “You’ve done enough,” she says softly. She waves the beer in my face. “Letting me drink your beer…”
“Astrid’s beer.”
“Your sister’s beer. Letting me stay in your house.”
I grin at her. “Technically you’re earning your keep by helping out on the farm.” I press my hands in harder and then pull back, getting to my feet. “Keep the camera. We’ll get you some film tomorrow and you can start shooting.”
She stares at the camera like she’s been entrusted with a child. “And you have a place to develop film in Todalen?”
“Of course. Ol’ Thor Ragnorok down the street has a one-hour photo shop in his closet.”
“Thor Ragnorok?” she repeats. Then she laughs and hits me on the arm. Hard. “Shut up!”
Fuck, I love the sound of her laughter. It feels beyond good to hear the happiness in her voice, even if it’s at the expense of me pulling her leg.
It gives me hope.
After that, we spent the rest of the night in my room, going through pictures, old cameras, souvenirs, weird things I used to collect like skeleton keys, lighters, bottle caps, carved stone butter knives, and candle holders. We drank beer and talked about the old times, ignoring the ugly bits at the end of our relationship. I even read her some of my terrible poetry from back in the day, then went through all the old photos that I could find.
It felt like old times and it felt like new times.
And I went to sleep wishing she was in my bed, wishing that I could be brave enough to walk down the hall to her room and gives ourselves a second chance, if only for a night.
Maybe there will be another chance tomorrow.
But there are only so many chances left.
The next morning, we get up with the sparrows again and herd the cows into the barn. I thought I convinced Shay to learn how to milk a cow by hand, but now that we’re standing by the cow, ready to go, she crosses her arms, looking unsure.
“On second thought, maybe milking a cow is a skill I don’t really need,” Shay says warily. “Not sure it will do me much good on a resume.”
I grin at her and nod toward the cow who is eyeballing her, like get on with it. “It’s too late. She’s expecting you. Besides,” I hold out my hand, “give me your phone. I’ll document it for your Instagram. See, now it’s a worthy skill.”
She weighs that in her head and to my surprise she unzips the front of her burgundy jumpsuit and reaches into her pocket, pulling out her phone. She hands it to me then zips her suit back up. We’re both wearing them, me out of solidarity since getting dirty is second nature to me.
Then she poses beside the cow, looking adorable in the jumpsuit and the oversized rubber boots, her hair pulled back into a braid.
“Do I look cool?” she asks, as I take a couple of photos, getting the framing just right.
“You look cute,” I tell her. “Sexiest farm girl I’ve ever seen.”
She seems satisfied with that as I give the phone back and she tucks it back inside her jumpsuit. “Okay, now what?”
I pull over the low stool and the bucket. “Here. Sit.”
“You sit,” she says. “I need you to demonstrate.”
“It’s better if you learn as you go. I’ll guide you. Sit.”
She sighs and plops down on the stool, staring at the cow’s udders. The cow lets out a low moo and I slap her side affectionately. She needs to be milked and is going to get antsy if we don’t hurry along. She’s used to being hooked up to the machine along with the rest of her friends.
Then I crouch low right behind Shay, pressing my chest against her back, my arms going around her arms, my hands over hers, guiding her into place.
“Just like the movie Ghost,” I tell her, my lips brushing against her hair, close to her ear. I can feel her stiffen beneath me, shudder slightly, like I
gave her the shivers. I can only hope it’s the good kind.
“Here,” I tell her, trying not to breathe in her apple-scented hair. “Let me show you.”
I move her hand over the cow’s teats, getting her to hold on.
She gasps and giggles. “Ahhh, this is weird. Is it weird for the cow?”
I laugh. “Probably? The cow is used to efficiency and the machine doesn’t giggle.”
She tries to take her hands away. “I can’t do it. This is too weird. I’m going to mess up.”
I sigh and let go of her hands, but I don’t move. I reach up and start milking the cow myself, trying to demonstrate the technique.
“See how I’m pinching it toward the end?”
“Stop making this sexual.”
I burst out laughing, my hands dropping away. The cow moos with impatience. “Sexual? Well now you’ve made it weird.”
“You’re the one who just compared this to the Ghost pottery scene.”
Okay, so she has a point about that one.
“Fine, fine,” I tell her. “Just give it a shot.”
She exhales, adjusting herself on the stool, squaring her shoulders. Then she tries again. She kind of has it right. “Yes, good. Keep going.”
“Shhhh,” she tells me. “You’re making it weird again.”
I look over at the cow, who stares back at me. I swear I see the cow shake her head.
But Shay is a fast learner. I stay crouched behind her, watching, but I let her do all of it, letting her figure out the best technique for herself. It’s not long before she’s in an easy rhythm, the milk filling the bucket, and the cow looks calm and happy.
“There you go, you’re doing it. Want me to take a picture?”
“That would involve you unzipping me and reaching down into my pant pocket.”
“Ah, and you don’t want to make it sexual,” I remind her.
“Maybe some memories are better left to us and not to the internet,” she says after a beat, her hands still working.
“Now you’re speaking my language,” I tell her, rocking back on my heels. “You know, when I’m out at sea we don’t have any cell reception at all. That’s weeks and weeks of nothing. Sometimes I’ll bring a camera along, especially if whales tend to be in the area, but I never post anything. I think it’s good to keep things for yourself.”
