Page 32 of Jace
Mom pats Sasha’s hand, proclaiming, “It’s time we get justiceourway.”
CHAPTER NINE
VIVIAN
On the seventh day,God restedafterhe created Jace Ryan and his ass in a pair of jeans.
While some men suffer from a pancake butt—even maple syrup couldn’t save their posterior—that’s not Jace. He’s clearly worked hard for that juicy peach in faded jeans.
It’s his day off. I’ve memorized his schedule. But of course, I chew my bottom lip, finding him leaning over, organizing the boxes in our new darkroom.
As if he can sense my stare groping his firm cheeks, he jolts up, whipping around.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I blush.
It’s often how we greet each other. Two muttered words. Two pounding hearts. Two longing stares.
Because if we say more, letting the real words and our hearts free, there’ll be no denying this.
This. The most tender and torturous feeling I’ve ever known, and I cherish it. I cherish him and everything he’s done over the past year.
And yesterday.
And now.
“Jace, it’s your day off. I can do this.”
“Nah, I like doing it. Besides, I’m already done.”
He gestures to the strip of black-and-white camera negatives hanging from a clip on the rack he installed. I was so blinded by his backside’s beauty, I didn’t see it when I came in.
“Your first film strip?” I explode, smiling. “You’ve already developed it?”
He shrugs. “It was one of my first rolls that’s been rattling around the bottom of my camera bag for months. I needed something to test our gear.”
I marvel, glancing around.
He’s already removed the undeveloped film from its canister, carefully loading it onto a metal spool. Then he placed the spool inside a small stainless steel developing tank, a canister, before adding the chemicals.
After waiting seven minutes, he placed the film in a stop bath to halt the chemical process. Next, he added a fixer, another chemical, before using a few drops of baby shampoo to wash the film. Finally, he carefully pulled it out, leaving the new strip of photo negatives to dry.
I can’t believe it.
The noon sun slices into the repurposed kitchen. He’s pulled back the black velvet curtains he hung over the windows while he processed the film. The room still smells like the buttery biscuits baked here for centuries, along with the fresh, distinct vinegary aroma of film chemicals.
It reminds me of happier times. Reminds me I can be happy again.Hemakes me happy again.
“Jace. I’m so proud of you. How did you do all this?”
He points to a tattered brown leather journal on the white marble countertop. Its pages marked with rainbow paperclips.
My college photography journal.
I told him about it a year ago, and he must’ve found it. Like, I swear, he’s found so many other things that I thought were lost.
“It was in the supplies you told me to use, so I followed your notes. They were detailed and easy.” He shrugs a shoulder. “I wanted to develop my amateur film before we start developing yours. I don’t want to messyoursup.”
