Balling his hand into a fist, he covers his mouth with his hand, hiding a smile. “Like a sex video?”
“What… no!” I swat his arm, shaking my head. “Why the hell would you ask that? I was in here by myself.”
He lowers his hand from his mouth, humor lacing his voice. “Oh, you can make a sex video by yourself.”
My cheeks flush and I grab the pillow beside me, hugging it with one arm, as I bury my face into it to hide my mortification. “Well, that’s not what I was doing.”
“What kind of video then?” he asks with interest, and I peek up at him. His hand is on his lap and his fingers are softly stroking my wrist.
“It’s just a video about me,” I say, shivering when his finger grazes a sensitive area on my arm. “Or my thoughts. I guess kind of like a documentary.”
“Or like a Novamentary,” he says. The moment is so real, so raw and fresh, that I can’t help but want to find a way to capture it and keep it forever, because soon it will be replaced by alcohol and weed or numbers and order. Tossing the pillow aside, I pick up my phone. “How about you say something for my Novamentary?”
“You want to record me?” he questions warily, and I nod. “Well, I’m not that great on video.”
“Neither am I.” I aim the phone camera at him, and I have to admit he looks stunningly beautiful on it; clear honey-brown eyes, long lashes, short, soft hair, and very kissable lips. “Delilah did it, but you don’t have to if you don’t want to.” I keep the camera aimed at him for a little bit longer and then start to lower it when he doesn’t say anything.
“Wait.” He compresses my wrist between his fingers. “I’ll say something.” He pauses. “Do you want honesty?”
I’m taken back by his question, but nod. “If you’re comfortable with it.”
He releases my wrist from between his fingers and scoots away from me. I think he’s going to leave, but then he crisscrosses his legs and supports his elbows on his knees. “Once upon a time there was this guy.”
“I thought you were going to tell something honest,” I interrupt. “Not a fairy tale.”
He holds up a finger. “Give me a minute… I promise it’s not a fairy tale.”
I relax, watching him through the screen as he cracks his knuckles and pops his neck, then stirs in his own silence. His neck muscles are rigid and his skin has gone pale.
“Once upon a time there was this guy,” he starts over. “And he was a good guy. The kind that girls could take back to their parents and who held open doors and who fell in love with the girl he knew he was going to marry.” His forehead furrows and he gazes over my shoulder. “Or at least that’s what he believed… but shit happened and the guy ended up dying, only somehow he made it back, but the good in him remained dead and all that was left was this really bad guy who fucks up shit and who really, really wishes he’d stayed dead.”
He stops and blinks, and for a moment it looks like he’s forgotten where he is, who I am, and who the hell he is. We stare at each other, and I’m trying to figure out what to say to him because he’s openly talking to me—or the camera, anyway—and the pain I’ve seen inside him is slipping out through his words. I want to ask him how the guy died, what happened to the girl, and why the guy thinks he’s such a bad person.
I lower the camera. “Why do you think you’re a bad guy?”
“Because I am,” he says it so simply as if it’s factual, but from what I’ve seen—from what I’m seeing right now—he’s not.
“No, you’re not,” I say. “Not even close.”
He shakes his head. “You don’t even know me, Nova, so you can’t say that about me.”
“I know some things about you,” I tell him. “You make me smile, and no one’s done that in a very long time.”
He offers me a halfhearted smile. “Just because I can make you smile doesn’t mean I deserve to smile.”
“Why? Because you do drugs? Or… or is it because of something else?”
“It’s everything.” He almost sounds frustrated, as if he wants me to stop telling him he’s good. “Everything I do—have done—is bad.”
“That’s not true,” I tell him and set the camera down on the floor. “What we do doesn’t define us, although I think some people would probably disagree with me.” I scoot forward and only stop moving when our knees touch—when I make a connection with him. “I think that sometimes things just get confusing and we get lost, and sometimes you can’t figure out which path is the right path… which is the right decision.” Quit or move forward. Heal or break. Fight or die. I’m still figuring that out.
His eyes crinkle around the corners as his expression softens. “Are you confused and lost, Nova?”
I nod and I feel something break inside as my confession hovers between us. “All the damn time.”
He swallows hard. “I completely understand where you’re coming from.” He sucks in a breath, and then the mood shifts as he rubs his hands together. “So how about some breakfast?”
“Breakfast sounds good,” I tell him, which seems extremely ordinary after the conversation we just had. But sometimes ordinary is a good break from complexity, I guess. Or maybe there’s just nothing left to say.
He uncrosses his legs, kneels up, and unzips the tent door. “Now, is there anything you don’t like to eat, besides melted ice cream?” He crawls out of the tent into the sunlight.
“Burnt hot dogs.” I joke as I crawl out of the tent behind him. “Or how about Hot Pockets?”