Page 81 of See It Through
Laughing, she unlocked her legs and gave me a gentle shove. “Well, I do. And it’s not just dirt on me, you know. There’s a good blend of sweat and horseshit.”
“All right.” I let her drop her feet to the ground but kept her close. “I like your sweat, but I could do without the horseshit.”
“Figured.” She took my hand in hers. “Come keep me company while I unload my tools.”
Grabbing the camera, I followed her to her truck. I didn’t try to help her. I’d made that mistake once. Hannah had a system, one I couldn’t grasp, so she’d forbade me from touching her tools. I couldn’t say it didn’t bother me just standing by while she worked, but I knew when to stand down, and this was one of those times. I’d learned Hannah had come up with ways to cope with having a somewhat chaotic brain. Her after-work ritual was one of them, and my interfering really threw her off. That meant I sat in a folding chair, staying quiet and watchful.
The view was nice, and I sure as hell didn’t mind the company, so I had no problem with it. This time, I took pictures of her, her tools, the garage. The textures and lighting made for some interesting images. I was looking forward to editing them on my laptop. The excitement stirring in my gut was familiar and had been sorely missed.
Once Hannah had finished, we went into the house. She took a quick shower while I sat at the kitchen table, loading the pictures onto my computer. I was engrossed in the first edit when she reappeared in one of Graham’s flannels and nothing else.
“What are you up to?” she asked.
I patted my knee. “Come here, I’ll show you.”
She made herself at home in my lap, her solid weight both a comfort and a visceral turn-on. Then again, this woman could breathe and my dick would take notice.
I scrolled through the unedited pictures I’d taken today. There were…a lot. Hundreds. I’d been out for hours roaming the property, even catching Henry from a distance.
“These are all from today?” she asked.
“They are.”
“They’re incredible, Rem. What made you decide to break out your camera?”
I touched the Nikon sitting beside my computer. “This isn’t mine. It belonged to Logan Adamski. He was one of the photographers in the car with me that day.”
She sucked in a breath. “He’s the one who didn’t make it?”
“Yeah. His mother sent me this. She said he’d want me to have it and make good use of it. How could I put it back in the box? It seemed disrespectful not to take it out and grab a few photos. But once I got started, I didn’t want to stop. I remembered what it was like to look at the world through my lens and find interesting in the mundane. Beauty in devastation. Magic in nature.”
She twisted in my lap to face me, her eyes roaming my face, surveying me. “You’re really happy.”
“Yeah, maybe? Having a camera in my hands was like…like regrowing a missing appendage. I can survive without it, but now that it’s back, I feel whole again.”
“I’m glad you have it, then.” She brushed her nose along mine. “Was Logan your friend?”
“He…I’m not sure I’d call him a friend. He was younger. Early twenties. He reminded me of myself when I first started. Full of adrenaline and vigor. Ready to change the world with his pictures, you know? We met in Thailand a few years ago, after the tsunami. I’d only been there a couple days, and it had been his first time working overseas. I saw him off and on after that. When we’d met again a couple days before the wreck, I’d noticed a big change in him. Some of his light had dimmed. It’s impossible for it not to. Being on the ground in the middle of a disaster—and the disasters we documented were more often man-made—hearing the sounds, the smells, witnessing firsthand what desperation drives people to, I think it rewires our brains. The only way to get out of this job whole is to detach. I’m not sure Logan ever conquered that skill. He’d told us he’d been thinking about going home, maybe staying put for a while. Then…”
She curled into me, her face in my throat, her arms tight around my shoulders. I held on to her, probably a little too hard, but she let me take the comfort I needed.
“Sometimes it’s too late to go home,” I rasped past the grief clawing at my throat. “You never know until it’s too late.”
Hannah rubbed slow circles between my shoulder blades and pressed light kisses along the column of my throat.
“Lucky for us, you came home,” she whispered, so soft I barely made it out. Then she moved her mouth next to my ear and said, “He was singing, baby. Remember that?”
A wave of tenderness crashed into me, and I clung more tightly to this woman. Alive and solid and real. Untouched by so much of the ugliness that was out there. Hannah Kelly was like coming upon a pure, crystal-clear stream after I’d been wandering the desert, unaware of just how damn thirsty I’d become.
We stayed like that, the two of us wrapped in each other, for a long while. Eventually Hannah returned to her original position in my lap and began peppering me with questions about the camera, then sat with me through the editing process. She seemed interested in all of it, curious about my career and art, so I spilled. Telling her about the places I’d traveled, where I’d want to go back to given the chance, and countries I would never set foot in again.
I missed her questions petering out because once I got going, I wanted her to know everything. This was me sharing a big part of my life with her, something I generally kept compartmentalized from the people I’d spent brief periods of time with over the years. With Hannah, I had an all-encompassing urge for her to know me and for me to truly know her. She’d let me have these beautiful glimpses of her internal life, but I craved the wide-open picture.
After a while, Hannah got to her feet and poured us glasses of juice. She brought me mine, then retreated away from the table to lean on the island, slowly sipping from her glass.
“You’re far away,” I said.
Her smirk was automatic but missing some of her normal sass. “I’m right here.”