The Secret History of Us

by Jessi Kirby

  How I’d been interested too but hadn’t wanted to join the crowd vying for his attention, and as luck would have it, I hadn’t needed to. We’d had a class together. Math. He’d joked. I’d laughed. We’d both gotten in trouble. That class, and seeing him, were all I’d talked about that week—looks we’d exchanged, the way he’d hung back to leave so we’d walk out the door at the same time, the way he’d smiled as we parted ways for the next class, and what it had all meant.

  Paige had built up the suspense before she’d told me how he’d walked up to me after school on the Friday of that first week and said: “I don’t know if you’ve got a fella, but you wanna go out tonight?”

  How I thought the word fella was the most adorable thing I’d ever heard.

  How I’d said yes, and he took me out on my first real date because the kids in our town usually don’t do that. We “hang out” instead. At parties, or the beach. But he’d taken me on an actual date where he picked me up, and met my parents, and brought me to Del’s Pizzeria, a little Italian place near the beach, where he fidgeted and didn’t eat a single bite because he was so nervous.

  Paige told me how we’d taken a walk out on the pier after that, and sat on the top of a wooden table watching the stars come out over the ocean.

  How he’d pointed out all the constellations he knew and told me the stories behind them. How the story of Queen Cassiopeia had been my favorite.

  She told me how he’d dropped me off on my doorstep without so much as attempting a kiss, and I’d called Paige and told her every detail, sure that this meant he didn’t like me, and that was the end of it, and I was so sad because after that night, I really liked him.

  She told me how she’d said I was wrong because she’d seen the way he looked at me when he thought no one was watching.

  She gloated when she told me how she’d been right because he’d called me the next day, and that we were together every day after that, and that first kiss came just a few weeks later at Paige’s house, where a group of us were working on a project and the power went out, and we were alone in the dark for a few moments before it came back on.

  How after that I’d told Paige I was already falling in love with him and how every day after that proved true, because we became that couple that just fit. The couple who were so in love you wanted to hate them, but they were so happy, you couldn’t. The first ones on the dance floor at parties or dances. The last to leave.

  Ours was a perfect love story, the way Paige told it.

  She wove so much detail in, so intricately, there was no way she could be making any of it up. I had to have told her these things in giddy late-night phone calls and chats where we rehashed and analyzed every little detail. And there were pictures to prove it.

  Paige had gone to my computer and pulled up all my social media pages, where there was picture after picture of Matt and me together—smiling, laughing, kissing, snowboarding, on the boat, at the beach. We scrolled back through three years’ worth of my pictures and my captions, matched some of the stories up with the chalkboard wall, and all the while I’d tried to feel these memories like I could feel the ones I still have.

  But I couldn’t. And sitting here, in the quiet of my room, the only thing I feel is a strange numbness. Like my emotions are trapped beneath a thin layer of something I can’t get through. Being told the story of something is not the same as experiencing it, no matter how touching or detailed it is. And now all I can think is that our perfect love story might already be over if I can’t ever remember what happened for myself. I don’t want it to be over, though, so I push the fear away. Try to repeat to myself what Paige said: that we fell in love once, and that no matter what happened the night of the accident, I’m still that girl who loved him, and he’s still that boy who loves me. And that we’ll find our way back to each other, because that’s what happens when you have such a strong connection.

  I’d been convinced enough—or maybe just hopeful enough—to call him, with Paige sitting right there on the bed next to me. Matt had answered before the first ring was even finished, and when I stuttered my hello, and explained that I wanted to see him, all he could say at first was “Really?” like he couldn’t believe it, and then “Thank you, Liv.” The hitch in his voice had put a lump in my throat, and by the time we’d hung up, we’d made plans for the following afternoon. A first date with my boyfriend of two years.

  The next morning, I wake up like I have each day since I’ve gotten home: I lie still, reminding myself that this is my room. As soon as I move, my body reminds me of what happened, though each day the pain is a little bit less. I’ve almost become used to the girl in the mirror, so I don’t spend as much time in front of it as I used to. But now that I understand a few of the phrases on my chalkboard wall, courtesy of Paige, I spend more time in front of it, reading them over like some secret code that will unlock it all for me.

  This morning, a note on the board that Paige didn’t get to catches my eye. Second Chance, it says, and I think I know what it means.

  When we were little, my dad used to walk me and Sam down to the harbor on Sundays, and we’d “pick out” our boats. My dad went for the fishing boats, planning his retirement as a fisherman out loud. Sam always chose the biggest, flashiest boats that belonged to wealthy summer tourists. But my favorite boat in the harbor was a beat-up old sailboat called Second Chance—mainly because it looked like it was waiting for one. The once-white paint on the hull was dingy and peeling away, covered in barnacles below the waterline, and the faded wood of the cabin was almost as bad. It was cracked and rotted in places after years of exposure to the salt, and sun, and weather, and the canvas covers on the boom had practically disintegrated. I used to imagine how it would look if someone actually did give it a second chance, and what it would be like to sail out of the harbor and into the wind and the open ocean, on some grand adventure.

  Later, when I got my camera, one of my favorite places to shoot was the harbor, with all its sights and sounds, and water and sunlight. I’d take shots of the sea lions lounging on the buoys; the tall masts of the sailboats, silhouetted against the bright blue sky; the sun setting over the bay, boats on the horizon. But what I loved best was taking pictures of that boat—catching its profile against the sunset or zooming in on the barnacled bottom just below the water’s surface. It was my favorite subject.

  My eyes drift down to my desk, where my camera case sits next to my computer. I run my fingers over the case, then sit down and unsnap it. I take out the 35mm Nikon and reach for the strap to put around my neck like my mom has always drilled into me. This is an expensive piece of equipment. Always wear the strap. She’d let me pick out a special one that looks more like a scarf than a strap even though it was more expensive—I think because she thought I’d be more likely to actually wear it. And she was right. I always wear it when I go out to take photos.

  I slide the silk loop of the strap around the back of my neck, take the lens cap off, and bring the camera to my eye, feeling the familiar weight of it in my hands, scanning the room until I have my mirror in the frame, my own reflection obscured by the sunlight streaming through the window and the camera itself.

  Click.

  I love that sound. It makes me feel calm and happy. I look out the window at the already sunny day and decide I want to take a walk down to the harbor. See if my boat is still there, take some pictures. Routine.

  When I go downstairs, camera around my neck, and tell my mom my plan, she looks a little surprised.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say. “Please? I know my way, and my ribs are already feeling a lot better. See?” I demonstrate by turning my torso side to side, which hurts, but I tough it out. I need to get out of the house.

  My mom laughs. “It’s not that. I’m okay with you going out for a walk. Some fresh air will be good for you.” She pauses, then smiles. “I just haven’t seen you with your old camera for a long time.”

  I glance down at it. “It’s not that old,” I s
ay.

  She gives me a funny look. “No, I guess not. I bet I’ve still got some film stashed somewhere if you wanted to start playing around with it again. You used to love it so much. You probably still would if you picked it up again.”

  “What do you mean, used to?” I ask. “Did I stop taking pictures or something? Is that why you brought it to the hospital for me?” None of this is making any sense.

  She takes a sip of her coffee, shakes her head. “I never brought it to the hospital, honey.”

  “It was there,” I say, though doubt starts to creep in even as I say it, because of the look on her face.

  “No,” she says. She shakes her head. “I don’t think so. And I don’t remember packing it up to bring home either. Maybe you were just thinking about it while you were there, or you were . . . confused?”

  “No,” I say, more forcefully. I pause, replaying the memory in my mind. It is a memory. “It was there, with all the flowers and everything. Someone brought it to me—maybe Dad?”

  “I don’t know why he would’ve brought it,” she says, puzzled.

  “Maybe he thought it’d be familiar?” I offer.

  “That’d be an odd choice. You haven’t used it in a long time. Years, probably.”

  “What? Why?” The thought that I stopped taking pictures bothers me almost as much as the thought of me not being friends with Jules anymore.

  She looks a little taken aback, like I’m overreacting. “I think you just got busy with other things, sweetheart. Between school, and volleyball, and Matt, you haven’t had a lot of extra time on your hands, that’s all.” She reaches out and puts a hand on my knee. “And you do take a lot of photos on your phone. It’s just quicker and easier than using that.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “There’s no rule that says you can’t start shooting film again. It’d probably be good for you.” She smiles. “You used to have a pretty good eye.”

  We’re quiet a moment, but the words used to seem to linger. They feel different this time, though. Different from all the other things I’ve been told I used to do, because taking pictures feels like something I just do. In the present.

  “There’s actually some film in here already,” I say. “So can I go for a walk and shoot the rest of it?” I have that wanting-to-be-alone feeling again. Even though it hasn’t worked yet, I keep thinking that if I can just sort things out in my own mind, my memories will come back to me—or at least the pieces will feel like they make sense.

  My mom smiles. “Of course. Shoot it to the end of the roll, then you can drop it off at the shop. My purse is on the counter—take some cash. It’ll be fun to see what’s there when you develop it.”

  TWELVE

  AT THE END of our cul-de-sac, I kick off my flip-flops and step onto the sand, digging my toes in to let the warmth really sink in. The salt in the air is stronger down here, and I can hear the low thunder of the waves just beyond the dunes.

  I feel the strain of the first few uneven steps in every muscle between my ribs, so I take the trail slowly, careful not to push too hard, but more excited to see the beach with each wave that I hear. It feels good to be out here in the sunshine and fresh air, even if it is just for a walk. It takes me only a few minutes to pick my way over the trail to where the dunes melt into the wide, flat expanse of beach and ocean and sky so perfect I lift my camera and snap a shot like a reflex.

  As soon as I hear the click, though, I do think about what I’m doing. I think about what my mom said, about me not having used my camera for so long, and of it being there in the hospital in spite of that fact. I know I didn’t imagine it there, but like my mom, I can’t figure out how or why it would’ve gotten there if she or my dad didn’t bring it. I’ve quickly become used to not knowing things for myself, and to taking everyone else’s word for it, but this bothers me. It doesn’t feel right, and I want to figure out why.

  I look out at the expanse of blue ocean, sparkling in the sun, and lift my camera again, trying for a different angle. It makes me think of a quote my mom read somewhere and then told me when I first started taking pictures. She told me to pay attention to my attention. To try to stop and notice the things that drew my camera to my eye and made me want to capture them, because those were the things that somehow meant something to me. The idea had seemed romantic to me, so I’d taken her words to heart, and almost always found my way back down the beach, and followed it all the way to the harbor, with its water and sunlight and all the boats that knew how to navigate between the two. That’s where I head now.

  I’ll take the last few shots on the roll and bring the film to In Focus, and maybe that will help me figure something out. It’s a thin hope, but I hold on to it as I walk, pushing my pace faster than is comfortable, to match the building urgency I feel in my chest.

  By the time I reach the harbor, I’m out of breath, and in more than a little pain, but the sight of boats lined up on the docks, bobbing gently in their slips, makes me smile. This place doesn’t look any different. It’s exactly the same, and that small thing calms me. I take the stairs down to the main walk and head down to M Dock, where Second Chance is. Or was. I have no idea if it’s still there, but I want it to be, so badly. Something in me needs it to be.

  Anticipation flutters in my chest, and when I get to the gate for M Dock, I strain to see the far end of the dock, where I remember Second Chance being, but there are too many other sailboats in the way. I try the handle, but the gate’s locked. The dock is quiet, empty of people, which means there’s no one to let me in. I jiggle the handle again, like maybe it’ll open if I want it to badly enough. The metal clanks softly as I pull, but it remains locked in place.

  I look down at the keypad, wishing I knew the code. And then, before I have a chance to think about what I’m doing, I reach out and punch in a series of numbers. There’s a soft click, and I pull on the handle again. It opens. I stand there a moment, shocked. I don’t even know what numbers I just typed in, but they worked. The gate is open.

  I check again to make sure no one is looking before I slip in. Then I close the gate softly behind me and step onto the dock. It sways a little beneath my feet, which makes me smile because I remember that feeling. It used to make me nervous as a kid to feel the dock shift like that, and to see the water through the planks of wood, but it doesn’t anymore. Still, I take my time, walking slowly and scanning the weathered boats as they sway lazily, tethered in their slips.

  “Hey! What are you doing here?”

  My heart leaps into my throat and I jump and spin back in the direction of the voice. The movement sends a sharp pain through my ribs.

  An older man, dressed in fisherman’s coveralls, steps off an ancient Boston Whaler and onto the dock, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I just was—I wanted to see if—”

  His eyes zero in on the camera around my neck. “Walker’s not around. And he doesn’t want to talk to any of you, anyway. So get outta here. It’s old news. Find someone else to harass.”

  I can’t think of any time anyone has talked to me like this. It’s mortifying. “Oh no, I’m not a reporter, sir. And I wasn’t looking for—” I stop as his words sink in. “Walker lives around here?”

  I’m not sure he believes me. He doesn’t answer.

  I take a step forward. “I’m sorry, I should’ve introduced myself. I’m Liv.” I extend my hand. “The girl Walker saved from the accident a couple of weeks ago?”

  The old man’s eyes widen. “Oh. Bruce Jordan’s girl.” A smile transforms his face. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I didn’t realize it was you. I just thought, with the camera, that you were another one of those reporters.”

  “It’s okay,” I say. “Completely understandable.” I pause, nervous all of a sudden at the possibility of Walker being somewhere nearby. But this could be my chance to meet him and say thank you. I give the old man a smile that feels as timid as I do, but I make myself ask anyway. “I just wanted to t
alk to him for a minute. Can you tell me where to find him?”

  He frowns. “Nope. Sorry, darlin’. He took off for a couple days. Needed to get out of here after all that, I guess. That kind of thing can get to you, you know.”

  I nod. He has no idea. “Do you know where he went?” I ask, feeling a little braver.

  “Out to the Channel Islands, is my best guess.” He motions in their direction, but the thin layer of haze out over the water keeps them hidden away, like Walker is apparently trying to be. “When he gets back, I’ll tell him you came by, how ’bout that? What was your name again?”

  “Liv,” I say. “Thank you.”

  I don’t make a move, and neither does he, and I’m trying to figure out if it would be strange of me to walk the rest of the way to the end of the dock, just to see if my boat is still there.

  “You have a good day, Liv,” the man says. He nods at the gate, and I have my answer.

  “Thank you. You too, sir.”

  I turn and walk back toward the gate, not feeling like I have a choice, and trying not to be too disappointed about not seeing the boat. At least I know where to find Walker now. Maybe I’ll try again in a few days. Or maybe when I’m working I’ll run into him.

  I slip out the gate and it clanks shut behind me, but I don’t leave just yet. I don’t know how many shots are left on my roll of film, but I want to get to the end of it, so I position my lens through the metal bars and take a long shot of the dock, and then another of a seal lounging on a nearby buoy. I look around, feeling a little lost. At the moment I don’t feel particularly inspired to take any more pictures. I just want to see what’s on the roll, even if it means wasting a few frames, so I turn the camera over, flip the crank up, and slowly wind the film back until the number in the counter shows zero. Then I take it out, put it in my purse, and walk.

  A family of tourists comes toward me on the sidewalk, the two kids toting bags of saltwater taffy, their parents following a few paces behind, Styrofoam cups from Splash Café in their hands. It reminds me of any time we’d have friends from out of town come in. We’d bring them down here, to the Embarcadero, the quaint little part of our coastal fishing town, and walk them around to all the shops, hitting all the important spots—chowder, coffee, and the candy store, with its slabs of fudge and taffy puller in the window.