Through the Lens (Click Duet #1) (Bay Area Duet Series)

by Persephone Autumn

  We chat while we wait for our food. And once everything is spread out on the table before us, to say I am overwhelmed would be an understatement. Everything has its own dish and there are currently seven dishes on our tiny two-person table. Seven. But I’m intrigued to see how much she actually does eat.

  Bite after bite, the food begins to vanish. Needless to say, I am done eating before Cora, and all I can do is sit back and enjoy the entertainment before me. She pops a piece of her sushi in her mouth, moaning around the tempura fried sweet potato and rice. The sound stirs me up. Has me dying to hear that moan—and all other delicious sounds—with me hovering above her.

  When we were younger, we’d had sex a number of times before my mother shipped us off to California. In the beginning, things were awkward and uncoordinated—as it is for anyone having sex for the first time. But the six months that followed our first time, we learned and explored many things with each other. One thing I never remember Cora doing was groaning in pleasure. It’s not that she didn’t enjoy sex or that she wasn’t orgasming—she was just a quiet lover.

  And so many parts of me want to know if that little fact still holds true.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Cora

  Today has been one of the best days I have experienced in a long time.

  Gavin and I walked around downtown St. Petersburg for hours and had a great lunch, although he teased me endlessly about the amount of food I ordered and ate. What can I say? I love my Asian food and I love it more when I can enjoy it a second go-around.

  After eating lunch, we strolled a few blocks before turning around and heading back to the parking garage. We blared music from my Spotify playlist through the speakers and drove with the windows down, the wind whipping our hair everywhere on the short stretch of interstate and highway driving. Close to an hour later, I drove over the backed up Memorial Causeway and on to popular Clearwater Beach.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, Gavin spoke up for the first time since we had gotten in the car. “Come up with me.”

  Once I found a place to park, I looked over at Gavin, unsure of what to say.

  “Come up with me,” he repeats, soft-spoken.

  Should I? Everything about us is molding back into place. Him asking me to come up to his room could be completely innocent. After all, he did say he would wait until I was ready before we took things further. And I believe him.

  “Okay,” I stammer. “Yes, I’ll come up.”

  We hold hands from the parking lot to the bank of elevators, my bag of leftovers in his other hand. No words or sentiments are exchanged, not that they need to be. His body language and expressions tell me everything I need to know.

  How much he cares for me.

  How excited he is for us to be together again.

  How nervous he is, his palm clammy against mine.

  But most of all, how much he loves me.

  Neither of us has broached the infamous L word, but it is there, dangling in front of us both. A few times I have almost let it slip from my lips. But I caught myself and battened down the hatches.

  It’s not that I don’t want to tell him I love him. The complete opposite, actually. But if I allow myself to say the word, to convey the enormous level of emotion that partners up with confessing such a sentiment, it may change everything. And right now, I have no idea if the change would be for the better or worse. The way he has been around me—calling me baby like he did years ago—leads me to believe it would be the former.

  And if I muster up the courage to profess my love for him—again—will he do the same? I can’t put my heart on the line, not if I am unsure he will do the same. Not enough time has passed since his return. Not enough to know whether or not he will run off again.

  The elevator pings when we reach his floor and we step out. Retrieving his wallet from his back pocket, he unlocks the door and ushers me in. With a loud thump, the door closes and he wanders over to the kitchenette, placing my food in the refrigerator. I stand in the entryway, staring at the room and how messy it looks. It is obvious he has told the maid service to ignore his room, which makes me want to laugh.

  Thirty minutes later, we sit cuddled on a small loveseat, laughing at an episode of Lucifer on Netflix. We munch on chips and candy he had purchased on his first night here. The episode is almost over when a knock sounds at the door.

  We both look at each other, confused. Before we started watching the show, we talked about grabbing dinner after, but not from room service. Maybe the maid was upset over not being able to clean his room for more than a week.

  Gavin rises from the couch, kissing me on the crown of my head. “Probably someone knocking on the wrong door. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  His bare feet pad across the floor as he disappears from my direct line of sight. The loud clunk of the deadbolt disengaging echoes in the room, followed by a slight creak of hinges. When he got up to leave the couch, he had paused the show and created a vacant silence in the room. Right now, that silence is deafening.

  Mumbled voices come from where Gavin went to open the door. A door which has yet to be closed. Which means whoever is at the door is either lost or is someone Gavin knows. My stomach suddenly constricts, a heavy sickness settling in my core.

  Is it Alyson? Is she giving him more shit regarding us?

  Curious as to what is taking Gavin so long to return, I rise from the couch and walk toward the door, my stride quiet and slow. The closer I get, the clearer I hear the conversation. A woman’s voice chirps from the hall, her words sweet and her tone casual. And I determine by their exchange she is someone Gavin knows. And knows well. And it isn’t Alyson.

  When I take a few more steps, I hear Gavin muttering under his breath, anger seeping into his voice. A couple more steps and I can see the door. Can see Gavin’s back and the slightest bit of wavy, blonde locks. His words to her are venomous as he tries to make her leave. But when he shifts to his left an inch or so, she catches sight of me and a devilish smile takes over her features.

  Who the hell is this woman?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Cora

  Thirteen years ago

  “What do you mean you’re moving?” I ask, tears welling in my eyes and threatening to spill at any second.

  He runs his fingers through his hair, grabbing hold at the roots and yanking as he bows his head. “My mom. She got transferred; promoted. Whatever. But her new position is in California. So, we have to move.” He tugs his hair harder before releasing it from his grip and looking at me with bloodshot eyes.

  I have no clue what to say. Or what to do. How to react. In this situation, is there really anything I can do? There is no way I can stop his mom from accepting the promotion she rightfully deserves. Nor can I stop her from taking the only person I care about to the other side of the country, almost three thousand miles away. If we were older, maybe we would have a say.

  Covering my face with my hands, I mumble, “When?” Although, I am terrified to know the answer.

  “She said we’re leaving next week,” he says, his voice cracking at the end.

  “Next week?” I whisper. “But what about school? And us?” My voice shrinking the more I speak.

  A vignette darkens the edges of my vision. My world slowly closing in on itself. Nausea roils in my belly and crawls up my throat.

  He wraps his arms around me, enveloping me in a tight embrace. His warmth is pure comfort, and I close my eyes and allow myself a moment to get lost in the feel of him. Breathe in his scent, the earthy beach smell that only Gavin has. Hear the sound of his erratic heartbeat beneath my ear on his chest. My head shifting with the rise and fall of his lungs.

  He can’t leave. He just can’t. Gavin is home. Where I belong. And I am where he belongs.

  One of his hands caresses the back of my head as his lips pepper small kisses on the crown while he shushes me. Our bodies rock back and forth, the movement subtle. And I squeeze him as tight as humanly possible, m
y body trembling as I am wracked with sobs. Maybe if I hold him tight enough, he won’t leave.

  “We’ll figure something out, baby. This is just as painful for me as it is you. I don’t want to leave,” he confesses. “Not you. Not here. You are my home, Cora.” He echoes my internal sentiment.

  “You’re my home, too,” I reply as tears flood my cheeks. “If you’re not here, I’ll be so lost.”

  He wraps me more securely in his arms as if he is trying to prevent the eventual departure we both know we have no control over. I wish it were that simple. I wish we had a say in the matter. A voice. But we don’t and that hurts even more.

  He withdraws from me, bringing his fingers to my chin and tipping my head back. Our tear-stained, puffy red eyes hold each other’s. The pain in my chest swells more with each passing second. My lungs burn as I refuse to breathe in this form of reality. This cannot be happening. This cannot be real. If I don’t believe it, maybe it won’t happen. Maybe he won’t leave.

  “I will find a way back to you, baby. It may not be right away. But never doubt that I will return. The only place I want to be is beside you. Forever.”

  A heavy sigh escapes my lips. Why could this have not waited another two years? When he could stay behind.

  “I love you, Gavin,” I tell him, and it reaches deeper than the hundreds of times I have told him before.

  He brushes a cluster of stray hairs from my face, tucking them behind my ear. “And I love you, Cora. More than anything else in existence.”

  I sniffle back my tears and congested nasal phlegm, the sound and motion very unladylike. We both laugh at me. But when we stop, both our faces locked in serious expressions, I whisper-rasp, “Happy Birthday, Gavin.”

  And seconds later he has me wrapped in his arms again.

  I help Gavin put the last of his things in a cardboard box, closing the flaps and sealing it with tape. Grabbing the Sharpie on the floor, I write Gavin’s room on the box and proceed to doodle a quick image of a beach beside it. If having a small drawing by my hand on cardboard is the only piece of me he can take with him, I will draw on every box possible.

  “Thanks,” he mutters, his mood growing infinitely more sour as we packed up his life here. I don’t blame him. If our roles were reversed, I would behave the same.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Looking around his room, I take in the bare blue walls. Before he was required to pack everything he owned, the walls had been littered with rock band posters and concert flyers. Images of surfers and the beach and us as well as our friends. Now, all those pieces rest in boxes or tubes, waiting to be added to new walls. In a new house. Thousands of miles from here.

  The built-in bookshelf is now coated in a layer of dust after his collection of magazines and books got tucked away and packed inside the large moving truck outside. All the furniture had been taken out of his room a few hours ago. The carpet depressed from the feet of the bed and dresser, and outlined with the faded color where the sunlight couldn’t reach.

  His room now a skeleton of a space I once deemed comforting and warm. His room as hollow as the hole growing in my chest.

  He lifts the box from the floor and heads for the door. The last box. And the last time we would be in his room. I carry the packing tape and marker, trudging down the hall and blindly following his footsteps.

  With each step we take, the world as I know it slips further and further away. No more lunches at school or meetups before or after. No more laughter or teasing. And no more movie nights or walks on the beach or sunsets. Or holding hands, embraces, or lips against mine. No more Gavin. And no more us.

  By the time we reach the moving truck, tears flow like rivers down my cheeks. I do my best to make no sounds, but the restraint it requires is fading fast. It feels as if I am intentionally giving the love of my life away. Shoving everything he owns into this truck and saying goodbye forever. Packing him up and shipping him off to who knows where.

  Over the last week, we spent every possible moment together. Not a moment wasted. Yes, he had to pack up his life. But he tried to do that after curfew so we could have as much us time as possible. Yet it feels as if we had no time at all. It feels as if every moment we have shared for the last two years is being ripped away and shredded into a million pieces.

  As soon as he gets to California, I bet I won’t hear from him often. He will be busy unpacking and adjusting to a new school just before the year ends. It isn’t only a major adjustment for me, but more so for him. Not only is he losing me—losing us—he is also being thrown into a foreign place with zero friends. The only people there to comfort him are his parents. The people upending his life.

  He sets the box in the truck, taking the tape and marker from my hands and placing them beside it.

  Before I can think of a single word to say, he yanks me close and holds me as if his life depends on it. On me. My sobs come faster and harder. His chest shakes around me with his own turmoil. Anguish and heartache leak from both of us and there isn’t a damn thing we can do about it.

  Minutes later, his dad taps on his shoulder and tells him it is time for them to leave.

  After a few labored breaths, he pulls back with hesitancy. His eyes swollen and red as he looks into mine. “I love you, baby. Hopefully, I can come back during the summer.” He kisses me and steals my breath, my pulse soaring in my veins.

  “I love you, too, Gavin. Call me when you land.”

  We exchange one last kiss and embrace, and then he is whisked away. My legs giving out as I collapse to the ground, where I cry for the next three hours. Alone. In the front yard of the boy I love. The boy who just left.

  Chapter Thirty

  Gavin

  Present

  When I open the door, I am beyond shocked to see Layla in the hall.

  “Hey,” she singsongs, waving a hand at me.

  “What are you doing here?” I whisper-yell. “And how did you know where my room is?”

  Her bright smile fades as her brows furrow in confusion. “I had a shoot in Miami. Just thought I’d surprise you on my way home. Alyson adjusted my flight for me, so I’m here till tomorrow morning. She told me which room you were in and suggested you might want to grab dinner.”

  What. The. Actual. Fuck. Alyson?

  She knows Cora and I have been working on mending our relationship. And she also knows I have every intention of moving back to Florida as soon as I can sort out the details. Is this her play on keeping me in California? Sending Layla to my door and having her attempt to swoon me over dinner.

  Not that Layla could ever hold my attention in that way.

  Now I have got some choice words for Alyson the next time we talk. And they won’t be pleasant. In fact, they will be downright ugly.

  “That was nice of her, but I already have plans for the evening,” I tell her as I start closing the door.

  Her hand comes up, preventing the door from moving any farther into the frame. “What the hell, Gavin? So, you have plans and now I’m no longer good enough to be around?”

  I really wish she would lower her fucking voice. Not only do I not want Cora hearing her, but I also don’t need the people staying in the other rooms to hear her flipping her shit. I give her a pointed look, telling her to quiet down. She huffs and rolls her eyes like she gives two shits what anyone else thinks. After all, Layla is quite the attention whore.

  “It’s not that. I have plans with someone else. Plain and simple. Please don’t try to peg me as the bad guy here. If you would’ve called or texted me and told me you were coming, I could have made different plans,” I press, my body heating and becoming more anxious with each passing second I am away from Cora. As it is, I have been at the door far too long for it to be a wrong room situation.

  “Why are you being such a dick?”

  “Me? You randomly show up and expect me to drop whatever it is I am doing because you’re here. Sorry. Doesn’t work that way.”

  She needs to fucking leave.
Now.

  “You’re different,” she accuses. “Alyson was right.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Now Alyson is talking shit behind my back. I groan as I picture Alyson calling Layla in for interference. And at this point, pissed doesn’t even begin to cover how I feel.

  “Don’t worry, she didn’t go into any specific details with me. But she told me you’ve changed since being out here. That you plan to make bigger changes, too.”

  Tomorrow, Alyson and I are going to sit down and have a very detailed conversation about keeping her mouth shut and her nose out of other people’s business. One—I pay her. Two—her job is to do what’s best for me, not her. And in no way is this benefiting me. This is all about her. I cannot believe she brought Layla here, purposely changed her flight and gave her my room number. What sort of game does she think she is playing? Does she seriously think this will sway my decision? My privacy is more invaded than ever now and a newfound rage builds inside me. A rage neither Alyson nor Layla will enjoy.

  “Not that it is any of your business, but yes. I plan on moving back to Florida after I get a few things situated in California.”

  “You cannot be serious. How will you work from here? What is so goddamn alluring about this place?”

  I shift my weight, her questions irritating me. This conversation is done. And I’m done. With her and Alyson.

  Just as I am about to shut the door again, a wicked grin lights up Layla’s face. A grin I know all too well. One that tells me she is about to do something spiteful and vindictive. Her eyes look past me, over my shoulder and into the room.