I still have nightmares about it.
Looking at her now, it’s hard to imagine any darkness still inside her. Not like me, where it surges like a riptide under the surface.
Slowly, I lower myself into a chair across from Nell. For what feels like an eternity, I watch her. Without shame. I don’t think about her pressed up against me, like a little sparrow tucking into a nest. I don’t see Henry and Katherine’s daughter, or the Nell of her childhood, or the guarded, watchful high-school student.
In this eternal instant, she’s a brave, beautiful girl who deserves more than what she’s been given. A girl who has so many chances still ahead of her—ones worthy of her talent and creativity. Her photographs and her art reveal her eye for the beauty of the world.
I look at the camera bag on the coffee table. Once upon a time, I didn’t feel complete without my camera. Like it was an extension of my hands, my eyes, my mind. An inviolable part of my body. Of me. For most of my life, my camera has been my shield and my sword.
But for almost two years now, it’s been my enemy.
I don’t have a problem handling cameras in class or demonstrating how to change lenses and adjust settings, but I’ve barely touched my own camera in months. I haven’t wanted to be far from it, either, as if its proximity will finally help me break through the barrier.
When I return my gaze to Nell, her eyes are open. She’s looking right at me.
My heart crashes against my ribs.
Jesus. What the hell am I doing here?
Putting myself on the front lines. Not retreating. Waiting for the bullet.
I start to stand, intending to walk away, to lock myself back in my room, but instead I find myself picking up the camera bag.
She doesn’t move. Her gaze is direct and curious.
I unzip the closure. My hands start to shake. I take hold of the camera and lift it from the bag. The casing is battered and dented from a thousand incidents, but it fits easily into the curve of my palm. I attach a zoom lens, forcing my fingers to go through the motions that had once been second nature.
She watches every move. She has to see that my hands are unsteady.
I secure the lens and grip the camera. I can’t do this.
No, that’s not true. The urge is like a hot coal starting to ignite.
I shouldn’t do this. I’ve already gone too fucking far in my own head.
I look at her. Steady gray eyes. Hair spilling like feathers over her shoulders. Hands still tucked under her head.
She nods, as if she’s already sensed the question I can’t bring myself to ask.
I lift the camera to my eye and look through the viewfinder. I adjust the focus. Her face fills my field of vision. As I zoom in, the lens shows me the dusting of freckles on her nose, the fringe of her eyelashes, the curve of her lower lip. She looks directly into the lens. Right at me.
I press the shutter button halfway. My breath sticks in my throat. The camera vibrates, like it’s coming back to life. Clenching my jaw, I force my finger to depress the button fully and release the shutter. The click recoils through my arm.
Nell’s face appears on the screen.
I let my breath out. After zooming out a short distance and adjusting the settings, I press the shutter release again. It’s easier the second time. Her face on the screen again.
Another click. Another. I stay seated, letting the camera do the work of focusing on Nell—her hands, her eyes through a veil of tangled hair, her mouth. And lower, though a dark part of me clenches in warning, to the curve of her hip, her legs, her breasts rounding out the front of her T-shirt. The shirt has ridden up at her waist, exposing a pale strip of skin.
How many people have I looked at through this lens? Countless. Yet, it feels like Nell is the first.
“When was the last time you took a photo with that camera?” Her voice is low and husky.
Tension crawls up my spine. “It was the photo I showed you in class.”
“The one of the protest.”
I nod.
“You said that was the last photo you took before you were taken hostage.”
“Yes.”
“Did you have your camera with you when they captured you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they steal it from you?”
“No.” I set the camera down slowly, forcing my fingers to let go of the body. “It was still in the car when Savko escaped. He kept it for me the whole time.”
A crease appears between her eyebrows. “When did you get it back?”
“He came to visit me in the hospital and brought it with him.”
“What was it like?” Nell tucks another pillow under her head. “Being reunited with your camera after all that time?”
What a strange question. No one but Nell would ever think to ask it.
“It was like…” I struggle to find the right words. “Loving and hating someone at the same time.”
Her gray eyes darken to the color of metal. “I sometimes felt that way about my mother.”
“I know.”
Silence falls. Nell pushes to her elbow. Her hair slides over her shoulders and down her back. She extends her hand.
Except for when I didn’t have it in my possession, I’ve never let anyone else touch my camera.
Until now.
I pick up the camera and hold it out to her. She leans forward and takes it from me. Our fingers brush. Heat jolts up my arm. I yank away like I’ve been burned.
Nell sits up, holding the camera in both hands. Her forehead furrows, exactly the way it does in class when she’s concentrating. The camera is big in her grip, but she handles it with dexterity, sliding her fingers over the scarred body and twisting the aperture ring.
“It’s heavy.” She hefts the weight. “How many lenses do you have?”
“Five. But I usually take one on assignment.”
She lifts the camera to look through the viewfinder. Her face is obscured. The lens is pointed at me. She adjusts the focus. I’m half a second away from lifting my hand to block the eye when Nell turns and focuses the camera on an old vase next to the fireplace.
The shutter clicks.
Lowering the camera, she studies the screen. Then she pushes the multi-selector that allows her to scroll through the images on the memory card.
There are no other pictures except the ones of her—the last card I’d used, packed full with photos from the war, is still in my safety deposit box in Manhattan. I’d put a new card in the camera when I was in rehab, but until now, it’s remained empty.
“Do you think when you take photos?” She lifts her head. “Or do you get into a zone where you’re working on instinct and feelings rather than thought?”
“Most of the time, I don’t have to think. I know when it’s right.”
A faint smile curves her mouth. “I wish I felt that way about something.”
“You will. After you’ve done it long enough. Or maybe you already do and haven’t realized it yet.”
She taps her finger on the camera. “Why me?”
Her question is quiet and curious.
What can I tell her? I’m already shedding my skin, showing her the truth of what’s inside me, this immoral pull toward her that keeps advancing, that I’m failing to stop. I want it to scare her, to drive her away, to make her run and hide.
Instead, she seems to be doing the opposite.