by Shandi Boyes
As I stare at the image of a little boy whose life ended way too prematurely, an idea formulates in my head. I dump Carey’s wallet on the coffee table and race out of his suite. The heavy stomps of my steps as I run toward the main residence threatens to spill the tears welling in my eyes, but thankfully, even with my heart hammering against my ribs, they stay at bay.
When I reach the spare room on the second floor of Nick and Jenni’s residence, I'm wheezing and out of breath. My hand shakes when I place the ultrasound picture on a white dresser before yanking my camera bag off the floor. No care is taken with my beloved equipment as I search for an item generally stashed in the bottom of the bag. It is not an item I use very often, but I swear it should still be here.
For the first time in nearly ten minutes, I inhale a full breath when the item I’m searching for leaps into my hand. I frantically gather my disregarded equipment back into my bag before hoisting the strap over my shoulder. Being extra cautious, I carefully lift the ultrasound picture off the dresser and trudge down the stairs. The paper is so fragile, I can’t be guaranteed it won’t break just from touching it.
My steps back to Carey’s suite are slow as I struggle with my heavy camera bag. Numerous partygoers acknowledge my struggle with a peculiar glance, but not one offers assistance.
My sloth-like pace completely stops when I reach the back door of Carey’s place. He is frantically tearing apart his living room. He showcases his strength when he yanks the fixed cushions off his expensive-looking couch without a strain crossing his face. Feathers from his scatter cushions and filling from his couches disperse over the rug, covering his floor when he shreds them open as if they are nothing but tissue paper. After destroying his two couches beyond repair, he opens the drawer of his coffee table. Discovering the drawer is empty, he upends the table and moves to the antique bookshelves.
I slant my head to the side and rake my eyes down the length of his body. I’m not shocked he’s destroying his living room in the blink of an eye. It is the fact he is stark naked. Not slightly naked—fully naked.
My eyes sweep to a towel dumped at the edge of the living room as my heart rate skyrockets. I stop staring at the drenched towel when a faint voice says, “Ma’am.”
A teenage boy stands at the door with a pizza box in his hand and a wide-eyed expression. The panic in his eyes snaps me out of the frozen trance Carey’s violent rage caused. After putting my camera bag onto the kitchen counter and carefully setting down Malcolm’s ultrasound picture, I snag Carey’s wallet dumped halfway down the hall and yank out all the notes inside.
“Thank you,” the delivery driver praises when I thrust a wad of bills into his hand. His words come out laced with concern.
Smiling to ease the worry marring his handsome face, I accept the pizza box from his grasp and gesture for him to leave. I’m in so much of a trance, I don’t stop to acknowledge his concern for my safety. I’m too dazed trying to work out what has caused Carey’s erratic behavior to add another item to my exhaustive list. I’ve never seen him so unhinged. With how much pain and guilt his eyes show, I never thought they would have the time to emit anger.
I shake my head when the driver asks, “Would you like me to call the police?”
“No, I can handle this.” The shakiness of my words detracts from my honesty.
After closing the front door, I drop the pizza onto the floor and release a nerve-cleansing breath. Deep down in my soul, I know Carey would never hurt me, but it doesn’t stop panic scorching my veins.
I stand at the side of Carey’s living room for several minutes watching him move around the space, pulling open drawers and rummaging through every nook and cranny in his house.
“What are you looking for?” I eventually ask when it dawns on me that he seems to be searching for something. Surprisingly, my voice comes out strong, corroborating what I already know. I may be frightened by Carey’s demeanor, but I'm not frightened of him.
I take a retreating step when he swings his barren eyes to me. He looks lost and haunted. Just the pain radiating from his eyes breaks my heart.
“A picture. M-Malcolm’s picture,” he stutters, his voice as broken as his eyes.
My hand darts up to rub the pain in the middle of my chest. “Oh—Carey. I’m sorry.”
The pain in his eyes doubles. “Have you seen it? Do you know where it is?”
My brisk nod nearly sends a rogue tear rolling down my cheek. “I took it,” I admit.
Carey’s face lines with shock, and he seems stumped by my reply. “Why? Why would you take it?”
“I was going to fix it for you,” I mumble before pushing off my feet to gather it from the kitchen.
Moisture forms in the corner of Carey’s eyes when he spots Malcolm’s scan in my hand. He charges for me, his movement so quick, a blast of air hits my face when he comes to a dead stop directly in front of me.
“Careful,” I request, my words strangled by a sob sitting at the back of my throat.
My eyes burn when he gingerly removes the picture from my hand. After roaming his eyes over every inch of the photo, he releases a deep breath, which physically loosens the tightness of his shoulders.
“I thought I lost it,” he mutters more to himself than me. “When I went to pay the delivery driver, and it wasn’t in my wallet, I thought I lost it. I thought I lost him.”
The pain in my chest turns deadly. “I’m sorry, so very sorry,” I mumble while struggling to keep my tears at bay from the dejected tone of his voice.
Keeping his eyes planted on his son’s picture, Carey paces into the living room and sits on the edge of his ruined couch. I want to comfort him. I want to express my remorse for causing him so much pain. But no matter how much my mouth moves, nothing comes out.
With my mouth refusing to cooperate, I force my legs to walk across the trashed living room and place a comforting hand on Carey’s shoulder. I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did, but relief engulfs me when he doesn’t pull away from my touch.
The odds of holding in my tears diminish when Carey discloses, “I don’t even know what color Malcolm’s eyes were. Were they blue like Jorgie’s? Or brown like mine? Some days I’m certain they would have been as dark as mine. Then other days, I’m not so sure.”
Since he appears to be speaking to himself, I don’t compile a response. I'm too stricken with remorse to say a thing. I honestly wanted to help him and didn’t stop to think of the repercussions of my action first. With my mouth still in lockdown mode, I run my thumb across Carey’s sweat-slicked collarbone as I issue silent apology after silent apology.
After a few moments of quiet reflection, Carey jerks his head up and peers into my eyes. “Why did you take it?” Thankfully, all I hear in his voice is inquisitiveness.
My lips are dry, so I lick them before replying. “I was going to restore it for you.”
His pained eyes bounce between mine before he asks, “You can do that?” The hope in his voice can’t be missed.
Biting on my bottom lip, I nod my head. “It won’t be like it was the day you got it, but it will be close.”
Fighting against my shaking knees, I take the empty seat next to him. “If you don’t want me to touch it, I won’t, but it is not going to last much longer in that condition. The paper is very brittle and the image is badly faded.”
When Carey runs his thumb along the edge of the thermal paper, it crumbles under his touch, reinforcing my warning.
His throat works hard to swallow before he mutters, “What if it gets wrecked?”
“It won’t. I promise you. I’ll be very careful,” I vow, my voice barely a whisper.
I’m filled with bitter relief when, after a few moments of silent consideration, Carey hands Malcolm’s photo to me. It is bitter because I hate we even need to have this conversation. But I’m relieved Carey believes in me enough to trust me with something so precious to him.
After running my index finger under my eyes to ensure no sneaky tears spi
lled, I stand from the couch and pace towards my camera bag. Carey tugs a pair of black trousers up his thighs before joining me in the kitchen.
“Because Malcolm’s image was scanned on thermal paper, you can’t use the same techniques you’d normally use for photo restoration.” I yank a photo scanner out of my bag and lift my eyes to Carey. “Do you have a computer?”
Remaining quiet, he nods his head before spinning on his heels. I follow him into the main bedroom of his residence. I’m not surprised by its manly appeal.
I sit down in the chair in front of his desk and connect my scanner to his laptop. “I’ll scan a digital copy of the image to your laptop for safe keeping.” I drift my eyes to Carey standing at my side, watching me with caution. “Just in case it gets lost.”
The quickest flare of emotion passing through his eyes relays that he heard the hidden apology in my statement. With a super fine brush and a pair of cotton gloves, I remove the excess dirt and grease distorting the image from years of being carried in Carey’s wallet. Once I’m satisfied all the residue has been removed, I scan the image onto his laptop and email a copy to my private email address.
A deep line grooves in the middle of Carey’s brows when I place Malcolm’s picture onto a clean, flat surface before unwinding the cord of my hairdryer. “Images are printed onto thermal paper by using heat. By gently applying heat to the back of Malcolm’s picture, it will encourage the natural coloring to resurface,” I explain.
Although I'm planning on digitally restoring Malcolm’s ultrasound picture, the sentimental value this photo holds for Carey is more important than the quality of the restoration.
Carey watches me in silence as I carefully heat the back of Malcolm’s picture.
“Why are you wearing gloves?” he questions a short time later, his words raspy.
I lift my eyes from the photo to him. “Natural oils found on your skin contribute to fading.”
His eyes drift between the photo and me. “So I should put it in a protective cover to stop it from fading?”
I briskly shake my head. “No. Don’t do that. That will speed up the fading process. The best thing you can do is take care of this photo as well as you would have taken care of your son. Be gentle and handle it with care.”
My chin quivers when Carey mutters, “Just like your heart?”
Not wanting him to see the tears welling in my eyes, I return my moisture-flooded gaze to Malcolm’s picture.
It takes several minutes of careful dedication for the faded sections on his photo to return to the surface. It isn’t the same quality it would have been when Carey placed it in his wallet years ago, but it is in a lot better condition than it was earlier.
After scanning the improved image onto Carey’s laptop, I print out several copies on cheap printer paper. The little inkjet printer doesn’t produce the best quality pictures, but it will do until I can professionally restore the image and print copies for Carey in my dark room.
With my heart not as heavy as it was earlier, I hand the original photo of Malcolm back to Carey. Numerous heart-thrashing seconds pass as he absorbs the restored image in resolute silence.
A surge of blood rushes to my heart when Carey locks his eyes with me and simply mutters, “Thank you.”
Chapter 25
One week later. . .
“How are you finding Ravenshoe?”
Ava finishes draining the lettuce leaves in her kitchen sink and turns to face me. “It’s good. Surprisingly busy.”
I laugh. “Wesley and I thought the same thing, which is ludicrous considering the location of our apartment.”
I finish cutting up the roma tomatoes and place them in the salad bowl at my side before washing my hands in the sink. “Did you find a suitable location for your practice?”
Even not being a fan of dentists, I will admit, Ava is a good one. She has been the only one I’ve felt comfortable seeing since. . . well, forever!
“Isaac has some great locations on the table, but I want to wait until I get a feel for the area.” She places the lettuce in the bowl of salad and tosses it with her hands. “This side of Ravenshoe is gorgeous, but the other side still has a long way to go. As much as Hugo doesn’t want me working on that side of town, they need my help more than this area.”
I nod my head. “Ravenshoe is a beautiful place, but it does appear to have two completely unique facades.”
Ravenshoe could be a metaphor for my recovery. There are days where I feel like I’ve fully recovered from my attack, then there are days like today that I struggle. Part of me knows my uneven composure is from the cold-sweat nightmare Wesley woke me from this morning, but the other half wonders if it is more to do with the fact I haven’t seen Carey today.
Don’t construe my statement the wrong way; nothing has happened between Carey and me the past week, but that is more because we barely get a moment alone. Well, I hope that is the case? With the band’s tight schedule and their desire to release their one year commemorative album before they go on tour next month, everyone’s free time is stretched to the absolute limit.
If I’m not photographing the band, I’m hiding out in the dark room of my studio editing and processing their photos. Because Carey is the band’s head bodyguard, he goes where they go. With their rocketing fame, even something as simple as buying a loaf of bread requires a dedicated security team.
Although I’ve barely had a minute to mumble a hello to Carey since our heart-strangling time together in his suite, that doesn’t mean we haven’t shared numerous sneaky glances and heart-clutching smiles throughout the week. Carey’s silence doesn’t bother me. Sometimes it is best to stay quiet when you want to know someone’s true self. Silence can speak volumes without a word needing to be said, and people who don’t understand your silence will not understand your words anyway. Besides, words can lie; actions can’t. Carey’s actions show he is a man struggling to be freed from his past so he can enjoy the present. It’s lucky for him I'm a patient woman.
I prop my hip onto the beautiful granite countertop of Ava’s kitchen. “So what exactly does Hugo do for Isaac?” I ask, curiosity in my tone. I met Hugo’s boss, Isaac, at the Marshall brunch last month. Although he has panty-melting good looks and a bank account to rival my dad’s, he has an aura to him that makes me a little more scared than impressed.
Ava’s well-manicured brows stitch together before she shrugs her shoulders. “To be honest, I don’t have a friggin’ clue.” A smile graces her plump lips. “But it pays well, and according to Wesley, money won’t make you happy, but it’s shitloads better than being broke.”
I wrap my arm around her expanded waist and giggle. God, I love Ava. She is the female equivalent of Wesley: kindhearted, beautiful, and intelligent. All those years ago when I stirred Hugo about his Ava obsession, I had no clue he was onto a real winner. I should have known. Hugo’s intuition has never steered him wrong. That’s why I wish I’d taken up his offer that night six years ago. Then both of us would have been saved from a life of heartache.
“Gem,” Ava murmurs softly, intuiting where my thoughts have strayed. “Hugo doesn’t blame you for anything that happened.”
“If I hadn’t been so stupid—”
“No,” Ava interrupts sternly. “You are not to blame for what happened to you, just as you're not to be blamed for Hugo’s decision.”
I want to tell Ava the truth. I want to explain that Hugo’s decision to plead guilty to my assault was solely my fault. But no matter how hard I fight, my mouth refuses to relinquish my confession.
My guilty conscience eases when Hugo enters the back entrance of the kitchen with a broad grin stretched across his face. Whether you're a stranger or have known him half your life, Hugo has the type of personality that can calm any storm brewing on the horizon.
The smile I issue him in greeting grows when Carey enters the kitchen shortly after him. Unlike every day I’ve seen him the past week, he is void of his standard work attire. His black su
it with crisp white shirt has been replaced with a pair of well-fitting cargo shorts and a round neck t-shirt. Seeing him dressed so casually adds to his appeal. Not many men can pull off cargo shorts, but Carey can, and he does it very well.
My slack-jawed response to Carey’s presence awards me with a heart-fluttering smirk. The crackling of energy between us is so dense, the ribs sitting on the counter beside me won’t need to be grilled. It’s that roasting.
After Hugo presses a kiss on the side of my cheek and plants a sloppy smooch onto Ava’s mouth, he snags the ribs and steak from the kitchen counter and exits the kitchen from the other end. Unfortunately, Carey closely follows him. . . but not before he gives my hand a sneaky squeeze on the way by. I swear, his briefest touch caused the next sixty years of our life to flash before my eyes. If my premonition is anything to go off, it is going to be a rollercoaster ride that gets better with every dip and weave we take.
Shaking off my reckless thoughts about achieving a happily ever after, I set back to work on finishing the salad we’re having with dinner.
Our impromptu double date goes better than I’d hoped. Although it was odd sitting across from Carey and pretending every word he spoke didn’t cause of rush of desire to scorch my veins, it has been a pleasant evening full of laughter and conversation. You know it is a good time when you can spend hours with people and you’re not once interested in looking at your phone. It is moments like these that fill me with hope that the best years of my life are still waiting to happen.
“We will get this cleaned up and be right out,” Hugo advises, gesturing his head to Joel and Ava to help him with the dishes.
When I stand from my seat to assist, Hugo says, “No, leave it, Gem. We’ve got this.”
“Yeah,” Joel adds on. “We Marshalls know how to treat the ladies.” I smirk when he stumbles over the last half of his sentence with a devilish wink.
Ignoring Ava’s livid glare at his suaveness rubbing off on their son, Hugo gathers our dirty dishes before he, Ava, and Joel bolt for the house like their backsides are on fire.