I photograph the bridge from different angles, then walk underneath it to focus on the colorful graffiti scrawled on the piers and abutments. Spray-painted figures, boom boxes, tags, smiley faces, abstract designs. Chloe + Dan. Fuck you. Out of Control. Why? Love.
I shoot pictures of the broken tracks from below, then climb up the opposite side of the creek bank. Rundown houses line the narrow streets. I take more pictures of whatever catches my eye—a weathervane, a battered front door, a sparrow pecking at a pile of leaves. Though I have no illusions about ever becoming the kind of photographer Darius is, I’m greatly enjoying this new way of looking at the world.
On the corner of a street, I pass a two-pump gas station and market. The market’s windows are plastered with sales posters and a flashing neon beer sign.
Looping the camera strap around my neck, I go inside. The interior is cramped and narrow, the shelves neatly stocked with groceries and canned goods.
I walk to the refrigerated section for a bottled water. A guy who looks like he’s in his early twenties is stocking chips on the rack opposite the fridge. As I close the door, he glances in my direction. Our eyes meet.
I start to duck my head and walk away.
“Hi,” he says.
Instinctively, I want to keep walking. But I stop.
“Haven’t seen you around here before.” He bends to open a box, slicing through the tape.
“I live over on the other side of the bridge.” I tighten my grip on the cold plastic bottle.
He indicates the camera. “You a photographer?”
“No. I’m taking a class. I go to Monarch High.”
“Ah.” He stacks bags of potato chips on the rack.
He’s wearing a T-shirt beneath a worn green store apron, and his arm muscles shift and flex. He’s not terribly tall, but he’s solidly built with thick hair the color of straw. When he glances at me again, I notice his eyes are blue.
“So what brings you to this side of the tracks?” he asks.
“I was just taking a few pictures of the bridge and the neighborhood.” I step back, prepared to stammer out an excuse and leave.
“I live a few blocks south.” He points his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the direction. “Rented house with a couple of other guys. I’m a sophomore at Evergreen College.”
“Oh. I’m planning on going to Evergreen.”
“Yeah? You’re a senior?”
I nod. “Evergreen is the only college I’m applying to.”
“Huh. I thought you were younger.”
“I’m eighteen.”
He straightens, resting his hands on his hips as he looks directly at me. He has an open, handsome face with high cheekbones and thick eyelashes. His nose has a slight bump on the bridge, as if it were broken at one time.
“I’m Jonah,” he says. “Nice to meet you, Eighteen.”
We both smile at the same time.
“It’s Nell, actually.”
“Nell.” He works my name around his mouth. “Short for Nellie?”
“No. Just Nell, like bell.” I gesture to the cash register with the water bottle. “I should go.”
“I’ll check you out.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Whoops. I already have.”
I can’t help laughing. He winks and grabs a bag of chips from the rack. Gesturing for me to follow, he walks to the register and rings up the water.
“These are on me.” He nudges the chips. “Consider it a welcome to this side of town.”
“Not necessary, but thanks.” I hand him a couple of bills.
“Thanks for stopping by.” He drops the change into my palm and fixes his gaze on me again. “Hey, if you want a tour of the college, I’d be happy to show you around.”
A strange feeling tightens my chest—a combination of regret and outright fear. Aside from Simon’s mention of a movie, which wasn’t even intended as a date since he’s interested in Clover, I’ve never been “asked out.” But this feels like definite interest.
“That’s nice of you.” I fumble for the words and hitch my bag over my shoulder. “But actually, my father is a professor at Evergreen, so I know the campus pretty well.”
“Okay.” Jonah glances downward.
“Thanks again.” I pick up the water.
“Hey, wait a sec.” He grabs a pen and scribbles on a notepad. “Here’s my number, if you change your mind about the tour or want to grab a drink…well, like a coffee or whatever.”
The tightness in my chest increases. Coffee with Jonah brings up images of me sitting across from him in awkward silence, my stomach in knots as I struggle for something—anything—to say. Already my embarrassment is palpable.
It would be nothing like my dinner with Darius, when it had been so easy to talk about olives, Volkov Bay, and a medieval Greek village surrounded by blue ocean waters.
But though I have no intention of calling Jonah, I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I take the paper and slip it into my hoodie pocket.
He smiles. His front right tooth is chipped at an angle. Part of me notices that it gives his smile a very engaging quality.
“Okay.” I back away. “Bye, Jonah.”
“Bye, Nell like bell.”
Turning, I walk to the door. When I glance over my shoulder at him, he’s leaning against the counter, watching me go. He lifts his hand.
I hurry outside and return to my car. Only when I’m back behind the wheel does my tension loosen up a little, allowing me to take a deep breath. But whatever pleasure I’d found in my afternoon of shopping and photography is gone.
For a normal girl, an innocuous encounter with a cute boy would inspire excitement, pleasure, and anticipation. For me, it just creates nervousness. Anxiety. Even fear, which is so incredibly stupid I want to cry.
I rest my head against the steering wheel and close my eyes. I’m tired of being scared and anxious all the time. Tired of worrying about what’s lurking around the corner. Tired of wondering and hiding.
Unfortunately, I’ve been this way for so long that I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to be a different version of myself. To be more like the girl in Darius’s photograph. A girl who could take out her cell phone and text a boy named Jonah with a breezy, Let’s grab a coffee tomorrow. A girl who has a place to go where she can wear a new blue dress.
But how can I be different when I don’t know how to change?
CHAPTER 16
Darius
When I was a hostage, I’d kept track of time by scratching lines on the concrete wall for every excruciating day that passed. It was my version of graffiti. But even with that constant visual reminder, I was surprised when I was later told I’d been captive for seventeen months. I’d done the calculations in my head. 517 days. 12,408 hours. 744,480 minutes.
Since my escape, I’ve made a point of always knowing the exact time and date wherever I am. It’s like a grounding force, a reminder that I no longer have to dig into a concrete wall to know where I am in relation to the rest of the world or time itself.
Which is the reason I’m caught off guard when I realize I’ve been in Grenville for almost two months. Maybe my reaction is a good thing, another shift back to normalcy where I’m just like everyone else. Surprised by how quickly time can pass when you’re not paying attention.