Page 125 of Shy Girls Can't Date Rockstars
“Then you don’t.” He shrugs. “But I think your parents gave you that camera for a reason. I think it’s because you have a talent.”
The words hit harder than I’d expect.
“Okay,” I whisper.
Surprise lifts his brow. “Yeah?”
“One photo.” I stand on unsteady legs. “Just one.”
I cross to the closet, where I left my camera bag as if it was nothing.
I set it on the bed and unzip it slowly.
“You okay?” Ryder asks, still sitting on the edge of the bed.
I nod, even though I’m not sure it’s true. I lift the camera out carefully, feeling the familiar weight in my hands. The neck strap still has the adjustment I made the last time I used it. The lens cap is still slightly loose on the left-hand side.
Everything about it is familiar, and that’s what hurts the most.
“What should I photograph?” my voice is surprisingly steady.
Ryder considers it for a moment, then reaches over and picks up the music box from the nightstand. He holds it in his palm, and the afternoon light from the window catches the worn edges.
“This,” he says simply. “Something that was broken and now works again.”
I raise the camera, my fingers finding the controls through muscle memory. I adjust the focus and frame the shot through the viewfinder. Ryder’s strong hand cradles the music box with the light streaming in behind him.
My finger hovers over the shutter button.
“I can’t,” I whisper, lowering the camera.
“Yes, you can,” Ryder’s voice is firm but not pushing. “It’s just one click, Ally.”
I raise the camera again. Through the viewfinder, I see Ryder watching me, patient and steady. The music box rests in his hands like something precious.
“Something that was broken and now works again.”
I press the shutter.
The click echoes in the quiet room, and I lower the camera slowly, staring at it.
“There,” Ryder says softly. “See? You still can.”
I look at the back of the camera, at the tiny preview image. It’s not perfect—the exposure is slightly off, the composition a little unbalanced—but it exists.
I used my camera.
“One more?” Ryder asks carefully.
I look up at him, then at the bare wall behind my bed. This melancholy space is waiting for something better to fill it. Letting instinct take over, I capture the shadowy color difference on the wall.
I lower the camera and stare at the preview screen. Two photos. Two tiny rectangles of proof that I can still do this. With a quick breath in, I click the back arrow and scan the images of Mom and Dad. The images I’ve been petrified to look at for weeks.
People like Jasper Whitmore can have their dad replace a broken camera the next day. But my parents will never be able to replace what they gave me. I cradle the camera closer to my body and let the images rotate across the screen. This is precious to me, and I’m not letting anyone—especially not a preppy rich kid—take it away from me.
I look up at Ryder, who’s watching me with that careful expression, like he’s afraid to break whatever fragile thing is happening inside me.
The words come out before thinking. “I don’t want to stop.”
