The door to his bedroom is partly open. Beside the dresser, his camera bag sits on a chair. I come to a stop.
Has he taken the camera out again since the day I saw him holding it? Has he taken any pictures with it?
The bathroom door clicks open.
With a start, I turn.
He’s paused in the doorway, wearing a pair of loose flannel pants and white T-shirt that clings to his shower-damp torso. A towel is looped around the back of his neck, and his hair is so wet it glistens.
My gaze locks on his chest, the landscape of hard slopes and ridges visible through the thin cotton. Water drips from his hair to his throat and cascades downward in little waterfalls. I have a sudden urge to become one of those droplets, winding my way over his body.
A hot glow fires in a deep, secret part of myself.
Tightening my grip on my bag, I indicate the stairs. “I’ll…um, wait in the kitchen.”
“I’ll just be a few minutes.”
I hurry downstairs. My nerves are like little electrical wires. Part of me is aware that this new level of noticing Darius isn’t right.
But why does it feel so…momentous?
I imagine this is what a bird feels like right before flying for the first time—nervous, excited, and trembling in anticipation of the wild, exhilarating leap into the sky.
CHAPTER 13
Nell
I’ve spent my life moving quietly through the world, avoiding attention and hiding whatever is going on in my mind. So while my heightened awareness of Darius is a little embarrassing—I mean, he’s my father’s age, and he was “Uncle Darius” for a long time—it’s not as if anyone will ever know. Least of all him. Ever since getting out of the institution, I’ve become an expert at locking my thoughts and feelings away.
I am, however, enjoying this new way of looking at the world that Darius is teaching us. I’m even okay with the other students looking at my photographs and critiquing them, as we do in small group sessions. The comments are always constructive and helpful, never mean-spirited.
By the time Halloween decorations begin to pop up around town, Darius’s authority is well established, and the students have an extraordinary amount of respect for him. No one would risk a snarky remark that might earn them a Mr. Hawke reprimand.
I continue to stay after school, either at the library or working in the art room. I develop another roll of self-portraits I’d taken in my bedroom, then bring them home to experiment with painting and inking the black-and-white prints.
I don’t love looking at pictures of myself, but I do like my ability to change the images in any way I want—whether it’s something as simple as making my eyes blue to painting over my face completely. I have no intention of doing anything with the manipulated photos—certainly I’ll never show them to anyone—but it’s an interesting, creative process that I might never have found without Darius.
He’s out working in the garden when I get home late from school one afternoon. He’s been here for six weeks already, and between his repairs around the house and his cleaning up of the yard, the whole property looks brighter.
I leave my book bag on my bed and head outside. The setting sun casts a reddish light across the overgrown weeds.
He’s paused in his work, almost as if he’s waiting for me. Which of course is silly.
“Do you need help?” I ask.
“Sure.” He closes his big hand around a cluster of crabgrass and yanks it from the ground in one movement. “Too late in the season to plant vegetables, but I’ll research what kind of trees or bushes do well in winter. Not that California has much of a winter.”
I imagine Eastern Europe does, though. It occurs to me that he missed over a year’s worth of holidays—Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter. Did he even know when they happened, or had he lost all track of time?
I bend to grab a few weeds, and for a while we work in silence. I’m acutely aware of him—the clean smell of his sweat, the coiled movement of his body.
He wipes his arm over his forehead and glances at his watch. “You hungry? Your dad said he has that museum lecture tonight, so he won’t be home for dinner.”
“I thought you were going with him.”
“Figured he’d enjoy it more without me hanging around. He can debate the fall of ancient Rome to his heart’s content.”
I smile slightly. “There are some pork chops in the fridge. I can fry them with potatoes for dinner.”
“I didn’t mean you should cook.” He throws another handful of crabgrass onto the pile. “Give me a few minutes to get cleaned up, and we’ll go out. Do you have a favorite restaurant?”
A surprisingly intense pleasure fills me at the invitation. “Dad and I sometimes go to Friendly’s Diner.”
“Would you like to try something different?” He pulls his phone from his back pocket and swipes the screen. “What about the Mediterranean Café? Greek food is one of my favorites.”
“I’ve never had it, but it sounds good.”
“Mediterranean it is, then.” He wipes his hands on his jeans and starts toward the house. “I’ll take a quick shower and meet you downstairs.”
I hurry to my room. Dinner out with Darius definitely merits something nicer than my usual ratty jeans and oversized shirts.
Below my room, the shower starts. Every time I hear it, I can’t help imagining him under the spray. God knows I’ve sometimes felt like my body doesn’t belong to me, but I’ve certainly never been tied up, tortured, or beaten. All those things and more had happened to Darius, and yet still he moves with such purpose and self-assurance. As if no one could ever take away his strength, no matter what they do to him.
I own only a few dresses that are now too small for me, so I change into a black skirt and a stretchy blue shirt with a Peter Pan collar. I have a sudden wish for makeup or at least the knowledge of how to do something fancier with my hair. I apply a little lip gloss and pull my hair into a ponytail before hurrying downstairs.
Darius is already in the kitchen—I’ve noticed that his showers are quick and efficient—and he’s wearing dark trousers and a long-sleeved navy shirt that fits smoothly over his chest and shoulders. A black belt with a shiny silver buckle circles his waist.
He takes his keys from the key rack and turns.
“Wow.” He skims his gaze over me, his eyebrows lifting. “First time I’ve seen you in something besides jeans.”
“I…well, I don’t have a lot of clothes. Or a reason to wear something nice very often.”
“You look very pretty.”
A flush heats my face. This is the first time since he’s been back that he’s said anything about my looks. And though of course he’s just being polite, the compliment feels good. As a girl who has to work at feeling good, I’m ridiculously pleased.
We drive to the restaurant, which is on a side street of Grenville’s downtown. After we’re led to a table by the window, Darius pulls my chair out for me and waits for me to sit down before he takes the opposite seat. The server brings us water and menus, then departs with a promise to return soon.
I glance surreptitiously over the top of my menu at Darius. The flickering candlelight casts shadows over his strong features, emphasizing the angles of his cheekbones and jaw. His thick, dark hair is brushed away from his forehead, and I imagine him studying himself in the mirror, combing his hair and straightening his collar in preparation for going out.