by Jessi Kirby
He checks his phone. “Quarter to six.”
“Can we stop by the camera shop real quick? I dropped some film off earlier, and she said it’d be finished by closing.”
“Sure,” Matt says. He looks amused. “Actual film? You have a camera that uses actual film?”
“Yes,” I say, and I stop walking. Matt didn’t know about me taking pictures either. It makes me nervous, about what I’d been taking pictures of. “It’s . . . actually, you know what? We don’t need to go right now. They close at six, and I can come back tomorrow.”
He gives me a funny look. “It’s no problem. It’s right around the corner.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll just come back.”
“But we’re here right now. Come on. We can make it.” He reaches for my hand with that smile, and those dimples, and against my better judgment, I take his hand, and in a few moments he’s opening the door to the shop.
The bells jingle.
“Sorry, we’re closing,” a voice calls from behind the printing machine.
“Okay,” I answer, taking it as an excuse to turn right back around and come back tomorrow, by myself.
Matt stops me. “We just have some pictures to pick up, that’s all.”
I hear a sigh from behind the machine, and then a girl comes out. “Of course. It’s no problem at all, why would it matter that we’re closing, it’s just a—Liv?”
She says my name at the same time I realize it’s her.
“Jules?”
“Hey,” Matt says. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
She doesn’t answer him, and she doesn’t take her eyes off me. I search them for the familiarity that I remember, half expecting her to come around the counter and hug me like Chloe did, but she doesn’t.
“Wow. I’m glad you’re okay,” she says finally. “That video was—that was pretty crazy.”
I feel Matt tense at this.
“Yeah, we’re okay,” I say, trying not to be shocked at how different she looks—even from this year’s yearbook photos. Her hair is a cut short and dyed a shocking shade of red, and there’s a tiny stud in her nose. “How . . . how are you?”
I sound awkward, stiff, I know it. But I can’t help it. I’m starting to freak out. I wasn’t expecting to see her here, and I still don’t know what happened with us, and she doesn’t know I don’t know, and I can’t start asking about all this with Matt standing right here while we’re waiting for pictures I took but didn’t tell anyone about.
“I’m good,” she says, keeping her eyes on mine. “Fine.”
We’re all quiet a moment, and I try to read what’s there.
“So . . .” Matt starts.
“Right. Your pictures. Lemme grab ’em.”
She goes in the back, and he turns to me. “You okay? You seem . . .”
“I’m fine. Just tired. I think I need to go home after this.”
“Sure, of course.”
Jules comes back out carrying the envelope of photos and hands it to me. It’s thinner than I expect when I take it.
“Sorry,” she says, “there were only a few that printed from that roll. The rest was blank.”
“It’s okay. I expected that.”
She rings me up, and I pay.
“Thank you,” I say. And then, “It’s good to see you.”
Her face softens the tiniest bit, and she almost smiles. “You too, Liv. Take care.”
And that’s it. Matt and I leave, and she flips the sign in the window to Closed, and seeing her for the first time is over. It happened that quickly, without me having a chance to ask about what happened with us. After a few steps, I steal a glance over my shoulder, half expecting her to still be in the window, but it’s empty.
“So are you gonna look at those?” Matt asks as he drives.
I’m looking out my window, holding in tears and replaying the tiny interaction with my former best friend, trying to figure out how things could’ve possibly changed so much between us, and hoping that it wasn’t something I did.
“Liv?”
“What? Oh.” I glance down at the envelope in my lap, and then at Matt. “No, they’re not anything. Just something for my mom.”
I wince inwardly at the lie, but I can’t look at these pictures right now, with Matt. Not when I’d been keeping it from him that I’d even taken them.
A knot starts to form in my stomach, and by the time we pull into my driveway, I have to tell myself to breathe, and smile, and talk. I thank him for taking me out, and we stand there awkwardly at the door for a second.
“So . . . I’ll call you tomorrow?”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“And you’ll call Dana Whitmore?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Thank you.” He steps closer and looks me in the eye. “Good night, Liv.”
“Good night,” I say, and he leans forward and places the softest kiss on my forehead. It’s sweet, almost chaste, but I feel it there as I walk through the door into the living room. I feel it there when my parents stop me in the living room and ask too many questions about my day, and I feel it all the way up the stairs and into my room.
It isn’t until I finally sit down at my desk with the envelope and pull the pictures out that I feel something else entirely.
Surprise.
I flip past the shots I know—from the harbor, the two from the beach, the blurry one of me in my room, and the shot of Sam and Paige mugging next to each other on my bed.
There are three left after that. The first is of a sunset over the ocean. Nothing spectacular. The next one is of what looks like a natural pool in the rocks. It’s taken from above, and the water in the pool is so clear and blue it almost doesn’t look real.
The last one is a shot of me, and it’s recent.
My hair is wild, blowing around me in the wind, and lit up golden brown by the sun that gives the whole shot a warm glow. I’m looking almost beyond the camera, and I can tell I’m laughing. I look at ease, and so happy.
I spread the last three photos out on my desk and examine each one for any detail that could be a magical puzzle piece—the thing that clicks and brings something back to me. But nothing stands out. I don’t feel disappointed, exactly. Just more confused. I hadn’t expected a shot of myself. I’d always felt more comfortable behind the lens than in front of it, so it’s strange to me that I look so relaxed in this picture. Strange that I would’ve let someone else take a picture of me with my camera.
I look at it again, at the warm glow, and the smile on my face, and now, if I remember just one thing, out of everything I’ve forgotten, I wish it could be to know who took this photo. I tuck it, along with the others, into the thin frame of my chalkboard wall and look at them against the backdrop of all the other things I don’t understand.
I read it all, over and over, go back to the pictures again and again, but it doesn’t matter. Even with all this right in front of me, I’m still locked outside myself.
SIXTEEN
THE NEXT MORNING, I wait until I hear both of my parents get up and leave for the walk I’ve learned they now take every Saturday. After they’re gone, I dress in my own workout clothes so that if Sam’s still here, I can leave under the pretense of going for my own walk. I could use a little moving, breathing, thinking time to myself, anyway. Before I leave, I grab my three pictures and tuck them into the pocket of my hoodie.
As soon as I open my bedroom door, I know without question that Sam’s here still because I smell bacon cooking. Another thing that hasn’t changed. Ever since we were kids—and apparently, still—Sam has bacon for breakfast every Saturday. No eggs, or toast, or even juice. Just bacon. Lots of it.
“Ah,” he says when I walk into the kitchen. “I knew the smell would do the trick. Even made some extra for you. And you have to try it, because you probably don’t remember, but I’ve basically perfected my method.”
I glance at the stovetop, expecting to see the big bacon pan he got for Christmas
when he was twelve and I was ten, but it’s not there. His As Seen on TV Microwave Magic Bacon Cooker from the next year isn’t around either. He is, however, wearing an apron that looks like a giant slice of bacon. Apparently from a Christmas I don’t recall.
“Oven bacon,” he says, movie announcer–style. “Allows for the maximum number of strips to be done at one time, uniform cooking, and perfect balance of crispy and chewy. Plus, there’s no mess for Mom to get mad at me about.” He turns on the oven light and peers through the window, then checks the egg timer we’ve had as long as I can remember. “Two more minutes.”
He looks back at me, then notices my workout clothes. “Wait, you’re not leaving before breakfast, are you? It’s Faturday. We eat a ridiculous amount of bacon and then lie around for a while wishing we didn’t. Remember?” The corner of his mouth twitches, and he tries not to smile.
“Actually, I do,” I say. I reach for a banana from the fruit bowl. “But I don’t think I do that anymore. You know, with the whole vegetarian thing?”
He gives me a look. “Stop it with that already.” He reaches over and takes the banana from me. Puts it back in the fruit bowl. “Now you’re just being crazy. You realize you can do what you want to do, right? You don’t just have to do what everybody says you did before.”
“Didn’t you just tell me what I did before?”
Sam thinks about it for a moment. “Well, yeah, technically, but that’s different. I was just reminding you of something you already like and remember. Not telling you something that you don’t. Either way,” he says with a smile, “it is my very strong recommendation that you try the bacon.”
It does smell good, and I am hungry after not eating much dinner last night. And Sam is, well, Sam. He’s hard to say no to.
“Fine. I’ll have a piece,” I say, sitting down at the kitchen island. “Just to see if you really have perfected your method.”
“Oh, I have.” He raises an eyebrow and smiles like he always has, with all the confidence in the world. “Just you wait.”
It’s quiet a moment. I run my fingers over the swirls in the granite of the countertop. He checks his bacon again. The timer ticks away from its spot on the counter between us.
“Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, yeah, of course.” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his bacon apron, trying to look casual, but it makes him look nervous. “Anything. Ask away.”
I hesitate. Find a dark vein in the granite and follow it to its end with my finger, wondering if we kept in touch once he went to school. Or if I told him anything. It’s not inconceivable. Last I remember, we were close enough for me to ask him what he thought about the boy I had a crush on in eighth grade and he actually gave me decent advice. The fact that there’s a chance I still did that sort of thing makes me brave enough to ask.
“Did we . . . did we talk much this last year? I mean, since you went to school?”
He shrugs. “Not too much. We texted sometimes.” He grins. “And there were a few ‘I Love You, Man’ phone calls that I’m pretty sure were wine cooler–fueled.”
I choose to ignore that part, as I still can’t picture drinking, or chancing the trouble I’d get in with our dad for that. “I called you?”
“Not a lot. But sometimes. Because I’m awesome and you love me so much.”
“Did I talk about Matt a lot?”
“Probably. I don’t know, it was pretty late the few times you called. You woke me up, and I just mumbled ‘uh-huh’ until you were done talking and ready to hang up.”
“Did I ever mention anyone else?”
Sam goes still, and there’s a long moment before he answers my question. “You mean like other people besides him? In general? Yeah, probably. I mean, most of us don’t just talk about one person.”
“I mean, did I ever mention any other guys? That kind of someone else.”
“Nope. Not that I remember.” He turns, opens the oven, and pulls the pan of bacon out even though there’s still a minute left on the timer, then makes himself busy fanning the steam away. Not looking at me.
My brother has always been a terrible liar.
“What did I say?” I ask.
He grabs a pair of tongs and starts transferring the slices of bacon to the paper towel–lined plate he has ready on the counter. “Nothing.”
“Sam.”
He looks at me now. “Not much.” He fidgets with the tongs in his hand. “I didn’t even know what you were talking about at first.”
“What do you mean? What did I say?”
Sam takes a deep breath and lets it out in a big sigh.
“Just . . .” He pauses, and I can see he doesn’t want to tell me. “Just that you’d kinda started hanging out with someone. A guy.”
“And?” I have a sinking feeling that there’s more. Maybe a lot more, that I might not want to know about myself.
Sam’s face confirms it. He takes another deep breath. “And that you and Matt were . . . drifting a little.”
“And you didn’t think this was important to tell me? Oh my God, Sam, why didn’t you say anything?”
“I . . . you just mentioned it once. And then the next time we talked, it was all back to Matt again, so I . . .”
He looks helpless standing there in his bacon apron, so helpless that if I wasn’t so angry, I might actually feel sorry for him. But I don’t—not in this moment. All I feel is anger.
“You what? Oh wait, you lied to me, is what.”
“I didn’t lie, I just—”
“Didn’t tell me the truth, which is basically the same thing.” I get up to leave, but I don’t even know where I would go.
“Stop. Liv, c’mon. I was trying to make things easier for you.”
“How does not telling me something like that make things easier?” I’m yelling now and I don’t even care. “How does telling me how much I love my boyfriend I can’t even remember make anything easier? Especially when it’s not even true!”
“But you do love him—or you did. Shit.” He frowns. “It’s complicated. And it just seemed better that way.”
“Lying to me? How was that better?”
“I told you, I didn’t lie,” he says quietly.
“No. You didn’t. You just decided it would be better for me not to know something I confided in you.”
“I honestly didn’t think it was that important.” He sits down on the stool next to me. Rubs his forehead. “I’m sorry. It was just—Matt’s a good guy, and you two were good together, and . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Liv. I was just trying to make it easier for you because whatever else you were doing—and trying to hide—was making things hard for you.”
“Did I say who?” I ask quietly.
“No.”
“Do Mom and Dad know about this too? Or Matt? Or Paige? Is everyone in on this?” The thought of them all keeping a secret like this from me makes me want to throw something, break something, anything.
“No,” Sam says firmly. “They’re not. You told me, and I kept my mouth shut because that’s what I do.”
“Apparently. You kept my own secret from me.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“From what? Myself?”
“No,” Sam says so calmly I want to punch him. “From everything you would’ve screwed up if you’d let it go anywhere. You and Matt are serious. You have plans. You’re even going to the same freakin’ college.”
“Am I? I don’t see how that’s possible, seeing as I don’t remember high school.” It’s not until I say it that I realize something I can’t believe I haven’t thought of until now. I didn’t just lose my past. I’ve lost my future too. Or whatever future it was that past me had all planned out.
Sam waves a dismissive hand. “It’ll come back.”
“What if it doesn’t?”
He thinks for a moment. “Then you’ll figure out something else
. Honestly? I was surprised you were gonna do the whole volleyball, business major thing to begin with. You stopped liking volleyball years ago, and I never figured you for business school. You were never into that. Not the way you were into other stuff.”
“Like what?” I ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know, artsy stuff. Taking pictures.”
I reach for my pocket and pull out the three pictures. Lay them on the counter between us. He looks at them, then at me for some sort of explanation.
“These were on my camera,” I say. “I think I was taking pictures again and not telling anyone, but I don’t know why, and I don’t know where or when these were taken.”
Sam picks up the one of the pool, in the rocky cove. “Well, this is on Vista Island, but it’s hard to access. You’d have to take a kayak or a boat there. Maybe you and Matt went out there? He was asking me about it last time I was home.”
We’re both quiet a moment, then Sam clears his throat. Points at the one of me. “That’s a nice one of you.”
I look at him, surprised.
“What? It is. You look really happy.”
I’m still mad at him, I am. But I look at my brother then, and I feel like I want to hug him. For knowing me probably better than anyone else, and for being here now.
“Here,” he says, “have some bacon. It’ll give you clarity. Offer a whole new perspective on life.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I think you mean ridiculously awesome.”
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“It will be after you taste this. Come on. Take the bacon.”
I laugh and look at the now-cold strip of bacon he holds between us like an olive branch. And even though I’m still mad at him for not telling me the truth about me, I take it. And when I bite into it, it’s worth it. It really is the best bacon he’s ever made, though I don’t give him the satisfaction of me saying that out loud.
We eat the rest in silent appreciation, and when it’s all gone, I help Sam clean up the kitchen.
“So are we cool?” he asks as he closes the dishwasher. “Because you’re on the schedule for Monday, and I need to know that you’re going to take me seriously as your boss. Like, super seriously.”
