Page 52 of Never After Us
But nothing about this feels easy anymore.
I could say I’m fucking fine and maybe live.
I’ve said it a thousand times because, honestly, I had no idea what I was.But now ...it’s all different.I’m working on being in touch with my emotions.I could lie but that’s another problem.Recovery drilled one truth into me—through therapy, meetings, rehab, all of it: lying keeps you stuck.Avoidance keeps you looping the same pain.And pretending you’re okay when you’re barely holding yourself together just drags the fall-out longer.
“I don’t know,” I admit.
Her eyes soften—with this genuine, focused interest I’m not used to.Most people ask, “Are you okay?”the same way they ask, “Did you find parking?”—out of habit, out of politeness, hoping you’ll give them the fast version:I’m fine, I’m good, let’s change the subject.Nobody actually wants the real answer.
But she does.Or she seems to.And that throws me off more than anything else.
“Then you can sit here for a few minutes,” she says.“Drink your coffee.Breathe.Let the rain do whatever rain does for you.”
“Rain doesn’t do anything for me.”
She smiles, amused and a little exasperated.“Oh, so you don’t let the elements help your soul, huh?”
I blink at her because it sounds ridiculous—but she’s already shaking her head, stepping closer like she’s about to let me in on some universal secret.
“You know,” she continues, “Mila and I have traveled a lot.We’ve met a lot of people who believe the elements could shift something inside you.Not fix you.Not magically heal you.Just ...shift things.”She gestures toward the balcony.“One woman in Bali told me water resets the mind.Another in Portugal swore rain clears emotional static.Someone in Iceland said the wind helps you let go of what you’ve been carrying too long.”
I stare at her, unsure whether to scoff or listen.
Probably both.
She lifts her cup and inhales the steam, eyes drifting toward the balcony as if she can feel the morning more deeply than I ever will.“I don’t know if any of them were right,” she says softly.“But I do know this—sometimes letting yourself feel anything outside your own thoughts helps.Even if it’s just rain.”
I look down at my mug, the warmth seeping into my fingers, then back at her.
And for a brief second, I wonder if she’s talking about me or herself.She pretends everything rolls off her, but there’s a depth beneath her calm—layers she doesn’t let anyone see unless they earn it.I don’t think she realizes how visible it is to someone like me.
“How often do you travel?”I ask, partly because she’s opened a door I’m not sure she meant to, partly because I’m trying to absorb that thing she said about feeling something beyond my own thoughts.
“It depends on the assignment,” she says casually, but there’s a flicker of hesitation in her eyes—there and gone.“Some jobs keep us in one place for a couple of months.Others are touch-and-go.In and out, new city the next week.”
“You enjoy that?”I ask, frowning without meaning to.
While in the band, I hated touring—the exhaustion, the noise, the constant motion.One venue, one roar, one backstage exit, and then the next morning you’re shoved onto a plane, half-conscious, barely remembering what country you’re in.Too tired, too high.Definitely too wired on whatever poison you convinced yourself you needed back then.
“I do,” she says, and her whole face lights.“You meet new people.See new places.You learn so much just by showing up.It’s an experience that I hope Mila enjoys.”
“Are you some kind of reporter?”I ask.
“Photographer,” she corrects me with a small smile.“I studied journalism, but my minor was film.I ended up blending both, and ...well, I do all right.”
She says it lightly, but there’s pride there too.
“If you need work in town, I know a few people,” I offer, trying to sound casual.Eddie knows half of Seattle’s creative scene, which is ridiculous for a man who believes that everything should be done online without getting out of his house.
He could also find her something in Los Angeles.It wouldn’t be a problem if she flies down there for a couple of weeks with Mila.I would even go with them.Then I stop myself, because where the fuck did that come from?
“Magazine people?”she asks, interest sparking.“That’s usually what I do.Some books too.You know—articles about Machu Picchu written by people who can’t take a decent picture to save their lives.I fix their disasters and make the readers think they’re geniuses.It’s fun.”
I picture her as one of those fearless photographers from National Geographic—the ones who climb cliffs and wander deserts just to catch a single shot worth printing.She’d fit right in, camera in hand, hair in the wind, probably talking to strangers like they’ve known her all their lives.
“You ever show your work in galleries?”I ask before I can stop myself.
She shakes her head, rolling her eyes a little.“My agent keeps bringing it up.Says it’s a way to keep me in one place while she hunts for something family-friendly and easy to travel to.Like I’m asking for too much by wanting to take pictures and feed my kid.”
