Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  She quietly assesses me. I see those cogs a turning, trying to pull that memory up. “Photography,” she finally answers. Her eyes glisten under the light of the moon.

  “Photography,” I repeat. “And Tim Tuttle is supposed to be one of the best there is at night photography.”

  “I think I’m going to cry.”

  “Me too,” Tim piles on. He pretends to wipe moisture from the corner of one eye. Laurel laughs, and that cloud of our certain uncertainty parts. The reprieve couldn’t be more welcome. “Ready?”

  “Ready?” I, in turn, ask Laurel.

  Her smile is instantaneous and so mind-blowing even Tim sucks in an audible breath. She is something extraordinary. I’m glad others notice it too.

  “Ready,” she replies, bouncing on her toes.

  We pack into Tim’s van, and he puts her into gear. “First stop is Nauset Light. It’s about a thirty-minute drive. Have you two been there yet?”

  Nauset Lighthouse is a must-see on the Cape. Laurel wanted to go yesterday, but it was raining, and she wasn’t feeling well anyway. She spent a good part of the day battling nausea and other less desirable digestive issues. I hate this.

  “Not yet,” I answer. “And Laurel will be your pupil tonight. I’ll simply be a spectator.”

  I hand her the camera. Our fingers brush, and she lets them linger for several poignant moments before she slips the strap over her head.

  “Thank you, Roth.”

  “No thanks necessary, my love.”

  “Newlyweds?” Tim asks us, taking a left out of the parking lot.

  We look at each other, both smiling. She replies, “No,” at the same time I say, “Yes.”

  “What?” I ask when she scrunches up her face. “I am more in love with you every morning than I was the night before, so I’d say that qualifies for newlywed status.”

  She rolls her eyes, but that happiness she’s still wearing is a dead giveaway. “You’re so weird.”

  “Admit it. It wasn’t the mustard whisperer T-shirt that sucked you in. It’s my weirdness.”

  “I think they’re directly related.” She giggles.

  “Is someone a big mustard fan?” Tim asks, clueless.

  Laurel and I hold our connection for all of two seconds before we lose it. Goddamn, this feels so normal it’s hard to wrap my head around what’s in store for us.

  “Oh, I am a huge mustard fan,” I manage to get out. Tears roll down Laurel’s face.

  That first night I met her when she asked if I was a ketchup fan, I have to admit it threw me for a loop. What an outright odd thing to ask, I thought. But as the night progressed, I put two and two together. And, to this day, I still remember that yellow dress she had on, down to the little white flowers that decorated it.

  “I think tonight is going to be a memorable night,” Tim tells us when our laughter finally dies down.

  “I think I agree, Tim,” I reply, clearing my throat.

  Laurel reaches from behind me to take my hand. “Me too.”

  “Did you two make it to the festival at all?”

  “We did between rain showers,” Laurel responds. “The town is decorated so cute. So many flags. We caught the parade and ate some linguica rolls. And the clam chowder was incredible. I’ve never had seafood that tasted that fantastic in my life. And the rooster paintings on the roads were absolutely adorable.”

  “Tradition,” Tim says. “The Barcelos cock is believed to bring extraordinarily good luck.”

  “I heard. That’s a neat tradition. There’s such a sense of community here. You could feel it in the air. Everyone is so friendly and welcoming.”

  We continue to make idle chitchat on the way to the lighthouse. Tim tells Laurel what she’ll be learning. Something about low ISO long exposure versus high ISO short exposure, whatever that means. Light painting. White balance. It all sounds complicated and boring as hell, but Laurel is excited and engaged.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to photograph at night,” she tells Tim. “I can never get the light balance quite right.”

  “What have you tried to photograph?”

  “The mountains. The moon. The moon over the mountains.”

  Tim chuckles. “Well, the settings are entirely dependent on what you’re trying to capture, the weather conditions, and the type of lighting you have available.”

  “What shutter speed should I use?”

  “That’s a pretty broad question. The aperture and shutter speed depend entirely on the lighting. In full darkness, the aperture opens as much as possible, probably f/2.8 or f/1.4 but that also depends on the capabilities of your lens. And the shutter speed also depends on the ambient light. You should experiment with long shutter speeds of ten to thirty seconds and select an appropriate aperture to match that. In total darkness, the aperture will be the lowest possible, but during the blue hour or with other artificial light, I may stop down to around f/8. We’ll take our time practicing and I promise you’ll walk away with some great tips to hone your skills on your own.”

  Greek to me. Thank God, Laurel speaks his same language.

  They move on to discussing noise reduction and the finer points of painting with light, which sounds complicated but cool.

  It’s not long before we make it to the lighthouse. We unload and set up our tripods, getting our cameras secured atop them. Tim points out the constellations with his laser beam. He’s incredibly knowledgeable.

  It’s a clear, bright night with a nearly full moon and we spend the next four hours learning the finer nuances of nighttime photography. I say “we,” but I mean Laurel. She sucks up everything Tim says like a sponge, and from what I can tell on her little screen, most of her pictures have turned out fabulous.

  There is one set I am particularly excited to see.

  We had transitioned from the lighthouse to an amazing stretch of beach running along Vineyard Sound in Falmouth. It was a bit of a drive from where we were, but Tim convinced us it was a spectacular sight not to be missed. As we made our way down this beach to find a spot to shoot, we stumbled upon two overturned fishing boats sitting in the grass of the dunes. They were so picture perfect, it’s as if they were staged. After Laurel set up her camera and took a few shots, she wandered down to the boats. She sat on one and looked up at the moon with the lights of the Vineyard in the background, and Tim whispered to me at the same time I thought, “That would be a beautiful shot.”

  “Would you like me to capture it?” he asks me.

  “You have no idea how much that would mean.” No idea.

  “Let me grab a few of her on her camera. Then why don’t you join her, and I’ll get some of you two as well.”

  “Don’t let her know you’re doing it. I want it to be natural, not forced.”

  “Of course,” Tim replies.

  I have a feeling I may need to view them by myself in a dark corner.

  “I had so much fun,” Laurel mumbles sleepily against my chest. It’s after midnight. She’s exhausted, no doubt. But we’re almost back to our Jeep, so we’ll be in bed within the next ten minutes, max.

  “You gonna make it?”

  She nods, silent. I squeeze her tighter. Tim eyes us in the rearview. I get the feeling he knows something’s up.

  “Everyone okay back there?” he asks.

  “Just tired,” I answer for us.

  Laurel is quiet, her breaths are even. She’s out.

  Two minutes later, Tim maneuvers into the lot. It’s deserted except for our vehicle and one other. I gently shake Laurel awake and get her into the Jeep before I ensure I have all our camera gear accounted for.

  “Thanks, man,” I tell Tim, shaking his hand. “We had a fantastic time.”

  “My pleasure. I enjoyed showing Laurel the ropes. She has a keen eye.”

  “That she does.”

  “Hey, if you two are ever back in the Cape around the holidays, I have a holiday night tour that’s pretty spectacular. I’d love to have you. Maybe you could ev
en try your hand.”

  I almost can’t speak.

  I’m sure Laurel would love that. Next to summer solstice, the holidays are her favorite time of the year. But I have no idea what six months down the road will bring for us, and the year after that…I don’t want to think about it.

  “We’ll keep that in mind. Thanks again.”

  “Nice to meet you, Roth.” He dips his head to tell Laurel, “And you too,” but she’s already fast asleep again. “You’ve got a special one there,” he adds.

  With my throat closing fast, I choke out, “I do,” before I can’t.

  Sliding into the driver’s seat, I turn the radio off and listen to Laurel’s breathing all the way back to the Songbird.

  23

  Grow Old With Me

  Roth

  Present

  July 5, 10:02 a.m.

  * * *

  It’s ten o’clock already. I should get up. We need to head out. I don’t, though. I lie with Laurel instead. I soak in her warmth. I watch her eyelids twitch in dream. She mumbles something about cats. She probably misses Meringue, whom we left home with Carmen and Manny to babysit. She doesn’t travel well, as most cats don’t. We tried that once. Didn’t end well.

  Yesterday was the Fourth and Laurel was beat from our long and exciting photography adventure the night before, so we had a leisurely day hanging around the campground and then we took in what I would say was the most spectacular fireworks show I’ve ever seen over the harbor and called it an early night. I tried not to think about the fact it would be my last Fourth of July with her. I try hard not to think about how many days I have left with her period.

  My phone vibrates and I pick it up to see it’s my mom. I haven’t talked to her in a few days, so I answer and quietly tell her to hold on, while I ease my way out from underneath Laurel, careful not to wake her.

  I step outside and catch my parents up on the last few days. We chat for a few more minutes, but I’m not paying attention. My mind is on Laurel.

  “How is she doing?” Mom asks.

  “I don’t know. Depends on the day, I suppose.”

  My mom is quiet. “This is important to Laurel too.”

  “I’m worried.”

  “And you’ll be worried sitting in Nashville. Geography won’t change that, Roth.”

  She has a point, though I could come up with a thousand reasons to return.

  “I’ll let you know when we’ll be there. Maybe a week or so?”

  “Whenever works for you two, dear. We’ll be here. Take your time.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  “We love you too, don’t we Frank?”

  “We do,” I hear Dad yell from the background.

  “Let us know if you need anything,” she adds.

  “I will, Mom.”

  As long as I’m up, I start my packing routine, doing as much as I can on the outside so as not to disturb Laurel. She wakes about an hour later and we eat a lazy breakfast. Well, I eat. She complains of nausea again and doesn’t even nibble her toast. She’s also coughing and is wearing a Preds hoodie even though it’s over eighty out already and a tad humid in the RV.

  I’ve pushed her too far. This is too much. We should go home.

  “What’s wrong?” Laurel asks me. Tucking her feet on the cushion, she pulls her knees up to her chest and drags her sweatshirt over them. She reminds me of a tiny yellow dandelion who might blow away in a light breeze.

  “Nothing,” I answer absently.

  Has she lost more weight? I think she has. She doesn’t eat much. She wasn’t a big eater before, but now…

  “Roth.”

  Her clothes are baggier on her. I noticed that a couple of days ago but didn’t want to acknowledge it. I think we should head ho—

  “Stop.”

  Definitely. We’re going home. We’ve visited two fantastic places, stacked memories upon memories, and that should be enough. She’ll be madder than a murder hornet, for sure, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll see—

  “Roth Warren Keswick.” Out of nowhere pink painted toes fly at me and connect with the very tip of my chin. My head snaps back out of shock more than anything else.

  “What the hell, Laurel. Did you just kick me?”

  Her lips part. Her teeth clench together. Her neck disappears into her shoulders. “Whoops. Guess I got a little close.”

  “Close? You almost took my head off.” I rub my chin in exaggeration. She barely touched me.

  She watches me, eyes narrowed. “Are you okay?”

  Her tenor doesn’t exactly exemplify sincerity, so I push the envelope.

  “I’m not sure yet.” I move my lower jaw back and forth, rubbing the temporomandibular ligaments for effect. “I think my jaw is seizing up.”

  “We’re not going home, Mr. Drama Queen,” she announces with a heaping dose of vinegar.

  This woman is no one’s fool. I love that about her.

  “Home? Who said anything about going home?”

  “Seriously?” Could her eyebrows get any higher? “You can drop the act.”

  “Act? Now you’re just being insensitive, Laurel.”

  “Insensitive?” Her voice rises two octaves in defense. Might have gone too far.

  Before I take my next breath, she’s straddling my lap with my face in her hands. “I know you like you know me.”

  “Uh-huh,” I reply. Her eyes are so dark today. They remind me of raw umber.

  “Roth.”

  “What?”

  “Look at me.”

  “I am.” I am enthralled by you.

  “You’re not. You’re looking through me.”

  I’m looking in you, Laurel. There’s a difference. I’m sifting through the muck to get to the riches you keep buried and protected. I want them all. I need every last one of them before you leave me. Please, let me have them.

  “It’s going to be okay.”

  “It’s not,” I answer, not mincing words for once. “Not without you.”

  She sighs slowly. “I’m sorry I kicked you.”

  “You didn’t hurt me.”

  “I know.”

  “How are you feeling?” I ask her.

  She blinks once. Twice. Three times. She licks her lips and I want to crawl inside of her and rip the truth out myself.

  “It’s not one of my better days.”

  “I’m sor—”

  “Nope. I will have bad days for no other reason than the obvious. I know what you were doing over here. You were beating yourself up, but I have had a fabulous time here. Do not apologize or you will make me mad.”

  “Do we—”

  “No, we don’t need to go home. I am going to have bad days and you need to let me have them without freaking out. I promised you I would let you know if I need to go home.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I will. I keep my promises, Roth. You know I do.”

  I consider her words, examine her body language. “I’m worried.”

  She runs her fingers through my hair. It feels so damn good, I moan and shut my eyes.

  “How about we take our time getting to Charlotte. Make a few pit stops off the beaten path. Take it slow and easy.”

  Slow an’ easy. Now I can’t get that Whitesnake song of the same name out of my head.

  My cock stirs. Laurel notices. She giggles and tilts her pelvis forward, rubbing herself along my now-engorged cock. God help me.

  “Want to go back to bed?” she asks, voice husky.

  Fuck yes, but “No.” I want my wife every second of every day, but I’m definitely not a selfish asshole. She’s having a bad day.

  “No?” Laurel snakes a hand between us and grips me over my shorts with intent. “Doesn’t feel like a no to me.”

  “Laurel.” I move to stop her, but she bats my hand away.

  “Let me do this, Roth.” She peppers my jaw with kisses, working the mechanics on my shorts before I have a chance to protest again.

  I can’
t let this happen. It doesn’t feel right.

  I join my hand with hers, intent on putting a halt to this, but she’s now inside my boxers, stroking my taut, greedy flesh. And between the second that I’m lost in sweet sensation and my sense of self kicks back in, she turns the tables on me, switching our hands so mine is doing the stroking and hers is doing the leading. She draws back and watches me as I watch her, scooting down my legs to give us space to work.

  This is certainly not how I envisioned this conversation would turn out, yet aren’t those the best memories? The unexpected ones? This is definitely one for the vault.

  “I want you to come,” she croaks, pushing our pace faster and faster. She glides her thumb under and over my head with every pass, pausing to press ever so lightly into the very tip. I jerk and shove my cock into my hand, squeezing tighter. She’s making my head spin. My balls twitch and tighten. Fuck, I’m bordering on embarrassment.

  I try to reciprocate, slipping my fingers under the edges of her loose gym shorts, but she throws up her knee, blocking me. “Ladies first,” I insist. I’m close. So fucking close.

  “This is about you. For once, let it be about you.”

  I want to tell that that’s not how I’m wired, but she snags the edges of her sweatshirt and drags it up over her head. She’s bare underneath. Gloriously, beautifully, wondrously bare. She palms her breasts, running her thumbs over her tight, pert nipples the way she did with the tip of my cock. My grip gets fiercer. My speed more urgent. I lunge forward and snag a nipple with my teeth, and the honeyed nectar of her taste is all I need to push me into a pure oblivion only my Laurel could evoke.

  I moan around her flesh as my hot seed coats her belly in pearly white ribbons. Laurel leans her forehead against mine and watches. She runs a finger over my sensitive crown, massaging the last few drops in gently.

  I let my breath calm as my mind whirls. I am spent and born again. That’s the way it feels every time I am with her.

  “I love you, today, mi amado,” she whispers.