I thrust the paper at Miles, daring him to tell me it was a coincidence, willing him to say it was intentional. He set the music back on the piano and smoothed it open, as if it hadn’t been anything more than a prop.
With the camera to my face I focused on the composition and the light, nothing more. Tip your head, turn your chin, look over my shoulder, into the camera, off into the distance. Stand, sit, turn, smile. Hand in your pocket, behind your back, under your chin. For a few minutes I forgot Miles was the Miles of Miles and Celia. He transformed into a shape I saw only through my lens from a comfortable distance with shadows and colors. Miles was right, it did feel like work, but in the best possible way, the way that made time fly as I made images stand still.
I moved the camera away and stared at Miles until he didn’t look like Miles anymore, the way you can look at a word and after a while it starts to look different, even though you know it’s the same word. Perhaps if you look at anything, or anyone, long enough and hard enough, it begins to change. Scrutiny was transformative.
“I think we’re done.”
Miles rose and loosened his tie. I looked at the mantel, arranged with new trinkets since the last time I’d looked, or taken inventory, probably many years before. A small wedding portrait of Miles and Celia in a simple black metal frame perched on an end table alone. I didn’t know if it was set in a place of honor or if Violet didn’t want her own belongings to intermingle and catch Celia cooties.
I picked up the frame and held it. I stared at the eyes of my friend like I hadn’t in years.
“I’d like to talk about Shay before she comes down,” I said.
“I’m not sure what you want to talk about.”
“She thinks you’re moving.”
“No she doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does.”
“We’ve talked about this, and yes, one day we’ll probably move. But not now. And I promise you, she knows that.”
*
I hadn’t reached out to Beck in six years. And now, back in the room that he owned, my attempt went right to voicemail.
“Hi, it’s me. I mean—it’s Teddi. Can I—I would like to talk to you about Shay. Would you call me back? Please call me back.”
Over the next ten minutes I held my phone to my ear, checked the Wi-Fi connection, restarted the phone, and texted Annie and asked her to call me. My phone worked fine.
Finally, I heard the default tone for texts.
Beck: I’m busy right now.
Me: Are you available later?
Beck: I’ll let you know.
Me: You’ll let me know WHEN you’re available or you’ll let me know IF you’re available?
No reply.
I opened my door and listened for a creak, a footstep, a cough. If I heard evidence that Beck was upstairs, I’d just tiptoe up before he had the sense to escape out a window and shimmy down the chimney. Or, I could sit on the steps and wait. He didn’t know that I knew I was sleeping in his house. His guard would be down. Then I realized Beck’s guard was likely never down when it came to me.
Back inside the room, I drew the curtains, but left on the light. I climbed under the covers so as not to disturb half the bed. Knowing the bedding had been chosen and purchased by Beck made me want to wrap myself in it as if it were intended just for me. It felt intimate, even revealing, like anything I thought would be left in the room for Beck to find. The sheets were smooth, cool, and a high thread count. The comforter was light but thick, warm but not suffocating. The pillows were supportive and soft and had just enough give.
An hour later I awoke disoriented. I didn’t know if it was late or early or somewhere in between. My mouth was open and dry on the inside, drool-drenched on the outside. My lashes were tacky with the mascara I hadn’t removed.
I picked up my phone.
Beck: I’m around if you want to talk.
Damn. It had come through twenty minutes earlier. I hadn’t even heard the beep.
Me: I fell asleep, sorry. Are you still awake?
Beck: Yes. I can meet you on the porch.
Me: Now?
Beck: Yes.
Me: Be out in a few.
I was wrinkled and rumpled and it didn’t matter. This wasn’t about me. Still, I wiped the mascara from under my eyes with a tissue. No need to resemble a raccoon; not that Beck hadn’t seen that look on me before and teased me mercilessly. I trembled as I tied my hair into a loose ponytail and then took it out, turned my head upside down and ran my fingers through my hair. Beck had always liked my hair down.
When I quietly opened the front door, I saw Beck sitting on the porch, on the floor, with his back to the street. He faced the door and I readied myself for a verbal firing squad.
“I didn’t realize you’d be out here already.”
“But you know I own this place.”
I sat against the railing with enough space for a linebacker between me and Beck. “Shay told me.”
“I know.”
“What made you buy it?” We both stared ahead.
“I needed something to keep me busy. And I knew how much Cee loved it.”
I nodded.
“I thought if you knew I was the owner, then you wouldn’t come for the wedding because you’d have no place to stay. I was against it—as you probably figured. But Shay seemed legitimately thrilled you were coming and I didn’t want anything to get in the way. I should’ve been honest. I’m sorry about that. And I apologized to Shay too, for making things more complicated for her. I didn’t realize at first…”
“I don’t think this is what is making her life complicated,” I said.
“Very true.”
“I know something’s not right. I think I know what it is but I’m not sure. In texts and on FaceTime she’s sweet and funny and adorable—and not that she’s not all of those things, but there’s more. More I can see but don’t know.”
Beck laughed but the sound was shaded with knowing and sadness.
“Please tell me what’s going on so I can help her!”
Beck had the answers but I didn’t let him talk. Not yet. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he knew me. He knew I wanted to help. He knew I wasn’t leaving without knowing everything. That was likely the problem.
I told Beck about the Fat Chance Café, meeting Morgan, the mall, the ride home, Shay’s comment about the other girls, and how Miles ignored that I wanted to know, to help, to be there. Lastly, I told Beck how Miles, Shay, and I ate pizza and talked about art, with not one word about the mean girls or the wedding or Celia.
“I’m pretty sure those girls are bullying her, or they bullied her this year, because she pretty much hides when she sees them. And then she called them weird, like she didn’t want to admit how hurt she was. How can you all just sit by and let Shay get bullied by these mean girls is what I don’t understand. Look what it’s doing to her. She has no close friends. A girl needs friends! Cee and I always had each other and Shay has no one like that. I can help her—I know what it’s like. My parents were never like the other parents, so maybe Shay’s artistic and different—”
“Stop! I need you to listen to me.” Beck sat with his knees bent and his arms propped up on them. Finally, he looked at me.
I folded my hands in my lap. “I’m listening.” I mocked him.