Page 11 of Weight of Shadows
There it was. The edge of something he wasn't saying. I could see it in the way his jaw tightened after the words came out, like he'd let too much slip and was trying to pull it back in. I filed it. That's what I do. I file things and I wait for the frame to develop.
I pulled the laptop closer and started clicking through files. I'd been wanting to show him the sinking building shots, but I paused on one from a few days ago. The alley behind the bar, a picture with high contrast, deep shadows. And in the center, that same blur I kept catching, a shape that didn't belong to anything in the frame.
I turned the screen toward him, Oleander’s reaction immediate as the color left his face and his hand on the table curled into a fist.
“The town plays tricks,” he said. His voice sounded hollow, almost rehearsed. “You said that yourself. The brain tries to find faces in the void.”
He was lying, but I didn't push. I closed the laptop slowly. “Sure,” I said, after a pause long enough for him to know I didn't buy it.
He'd tell me when he was ready. Or he wouldn't, and I'd figure it out from the negative space.
"Come on," I said, standing up. "I want to show you that sinking building. The light's going to be good for another hour."
He followed me out of the diner. I walked ahead, my camera bag swinging against my hip, but I didn't reach for the lens. I was thinking about the way his face had crumbled when he saw that photo, the way his fist had clenched like he was trying to hold something in that wanted desperately to get out. He knew what was in that shadow. He knew it by name.
I was going to find out what that name was. But not today. Today, I was going to show him a building that was falling apart beautifully, and I was going to stand close enough to feel the warmth coming off his skin, and I was going to pretend that was enough.
It wasn't. But I was a photographer. I was used to waiting for the shot.
ten
OLEANDER
I stood by the bar door for a second, letting my eyes adjust to the amber dimness, and that's when I saw the room for what it was. Julian was at the piano, his dark shoulders squared, his fingers moving over the keys with a precision that felt like he was trying to hold the walls in place. Rowan was already there, a silent anchor at the far end of the bar. And then there was Theo, tucked into a booth near the back, his camera lens glinting like an unblinking eye.
I could feel the gravity of them pulling at my skin. The door behind me felt like an exit I wasn't allowed to take. I walked to the bar and took a stool two seats away from Rowan. I just staredat the rows of bottles behind the bar, their glass bodies glowing like jewels in the low light.
Rowan didn't acknowledge the two empty stools between us, but I felt him anyway. He was heat on the side of my face, a pressure in the air that made the hair on my arms stand up.
Julian's music was different tonight, something sharper, more jagged. It sounded like glass breaking in slow motion. I was a footnote they were both reading at the same time.
The bartender set a whiskey in front of me without being asked. I took a sip, the burn sliding down my throat and settling in my chest. I needed the numbness.
"You're doing it again," Rowan said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the music. He hadn't turned his head.
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Apologizing for existing," he said. He finally turned his head, his grey-green eyes pinning me to the spot. "Stop it. It's exhausting to watch."
I gripped my glass a little tighter. "I didn't realize I was putting on a performance for you, Rowan."
"Everything you do is a performance, Oleander," he countered, and for a second, something close to a smirk crossed his face. "You're waiting for someone to tell you where to stand. Nobody's coming to save you from yourself."
The music reached a crescendo, a dissonant chord that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards, and then it stopped. Julian sat still for a heartbeat, his head bowed, before he stood up. The few regulars scattered in the booths offered a smattering of applause he didn't acknowledge. He walked straight to the bar and wearily dropped onto the stool directly beside Rowan.
Rowan reached out, his broad hand finding the back of Julian's neck with an automatic tenderness. Julian leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed for a fraction of a second. Something about it made me look away.
Julian opened his eyes and looked at me over Rowan's arm. He looked curious, which was somehow worse.
"You stayed for the whole set," Julian said.
"It was beautiful," I said, and meant it in a way I wasn't ready to examine.
"It was loud," Theo's voice cut through the tension, and I jumped slightly as he appeared beside us. He was carrying his camera, the strap slung over his shoulder, and he had a grin on his face that didn't quite reach his amber eyes. He slid a chair from a nearby table and joined the line at the bar, completing the circle.
"I got some good shots," Theo continued, tapping the screen on the back of his camera. He looked at Julian, then flicked his gaze to me. "The light in here is trash, but the shadows are doing all the heavy lifting tonight. You want to see?"
He leaned over, holding the camera out so we could all see the small, glowing screen. It was a shot of the bar from the back of the room. The amber light pooled on the wood, and the three of us were arranged in a perfect, accidental line. Julian was a silhouette at the piano, Rowan was a wall of shadow at the bar, and I was caught in the middle, looking small and fragile against the backdrop of the dark shelves.
