Page 18 of Jace
She’s not looking away from me as I mirror her gaze. The pause between us is as tender and pure as that toddler.
I know what this feeling is.
And so does she.
“Jace, you have a great eye and a big heart.” She smiles softly, handing me my loaded camera. “Now use it.”
I gaze down at my other treasure, my Nikon. “But I’m confused. The smaller the number, the larger the aperture? The more light it lets in?”
I study the dials, not wanting to seem ignorant, but if the stupid shoe fits…
“I know. It’s okay. It’s inverse logic, but you got this.” Vivian’s patiently showing me how to rotate the ring on the lens. “So on an overcast day like this, you can use the soft light. I’d suggest setting it to f/5.6 and…”
She’s focused on my vintage camera while it’s my turn to focus on her.
Today, she seems more subdued than usual. Almost to the point of being saturated in sadness. Like she’s trying hard to be light and happy with me, but her world weighs too much.
She’s wearing a mask, pretending she’s okay, but she’s not. It’s so obvious, it tightens my throat.
It’s a mask I recognize.
My mom wore one.
I worship my mother’s strength. She never showed weakness, escaping Moscow and my abusive father when we were boys.
We started in America with nothing but my mother’s smiling determination and my brothers’ fierce loyalty to one another.
But one night when I was a boy, I heard my mom crying alone in her bedroom, so I barged in, needing to comfort her, and I froze. Horrified by the sight of the scars she’d been hiding on her back.
Scars my father put there.
And I’ve never been the same.
I can see through the masks people wear. My past taught me how.
We all have pain; you just have to be willing to see it. And I rage when I detect another woman’s abuse. I want to kill the man (usually) who put it there.
“Hey.” I caress her fingertips on my camera. It lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” She swallows, her eyes shifting. “Why? Does something seem wrong?”
Her hands suddenly shake. Her brows bending. I’d swear she’s about to cry. The puffy, dark rings under her beautiful eyes make it look like she did it all night.
“Viv…” I feel her sadness. “Sorry, can I call you that?”
“Please.” Her lips tremble, trying to smile, but they can’t. They’re hiding something. “I mean, yes. My friends used to call me that.”
Used to?
What’s happened to her life?
“Okay, then, Viv.” I step closer, using my body to protect hers from the wind. It’s the least I can do. “What’s going on? Something’s wrong, I can tell.”
We’re surrounded by happy families and relaxed beachgoers, enjoying the warm winter day. Seagulls squawk. Waves crash. Kids squeal with delight at the cold water, but their joyful cacophony falls away.
She’s the center of my world.
“Nothing,” she softly lies.
