Riding With Brighton(28)
“I guess it’s because there’s a person. I mean, it’s not just an object. There’s a real person.”
“She’s beautiful, right?” His hand twitches, and I’m scared he’s gonna let go of me, so I shift my palm so I can interlock my fingers with his.
I look at her, at the way she’s practically glowing. I can appreciate the fact that she has a beautiful body. But it’s the expression on her face that’s making me feel something. “Do you think she’s happy or sad?”
“I used to think she was content, that she was just happy to be naked in the sun. But the more time I spent looking at her, I thought that someone made her do that—take her clothes off, expose herself—and that the look on her face was fear masked by whatever the photographer was telling her to feel. But now, I just think that she’s expressing raw human emotion because whoever is taking the photograph is someone she loves. Someone she’s probably hated too. Maybe they were fighting that day, or maybe they had just made love, or maybe she wanted him to care about her more than he cared about taking photographs of her. I don’t know. But I’m intrigued by her. What do you think?”
I stare at her, and I swear she’s staring back at me, and I think I get her. Although, my mind is definitely not a reliable source of reasonable information today. “I think she’s hiding something. I think she wants to tell the person who’s photographing her something, but she’s not. Or she can’t. I think she’s completely exposing her body to him, but she’s not willing to expose what’s inside.”
Brighton’s quiet for a minute, but then he says. “Yeah, I think you’re right. The flowers flowing down from her make more sense when you think about it like that. Like they’re symbols for all the things she could let flow out of her. That she wishes she had. How beautiful it could have been if she had just done that.”
“You think the artist understood that?”
“She was the artist,” Brighton says, looking up at the woman. “It’s about her. She never talked to anyone—kept completely to herself. She didn’t live in the house. She would just come here every day and work on this until it was done, and then she disappeared. She didn’t share any of herself with any of us, but then she erects a giant nude picture of herself for anyone to see. I thought she was just shy and introverted. She never really struck me as sad. But now that you say that, I guess that’s how she really was. She kept everything bottled up and probably had a lifetime of secrets inside of her.”
I stare at the girl, I think about living a life like that, something I’m familiar with, and suddenly my heart feels like it’s swelling with sadness. I take my hand from Brighton’s so I can push my palms into my eyes to try and hold back the tears that are threatening to explode.
“You okay?”
I run my palms down my face, then shove my hands in my pockets, wishing I hadn’t left my baseball cap on Brighton’s bed. I want to hide. I want to disappear. “I can just feel it… what she’s feeling. It hurts to hold so much shit in. To have to lie to yourself and the people you love. It’s physically painful. I could see myself ending up like her—hating myself so bad that I don’t even think I’m worthy of human contact.”
Brighton wraps an arm around me, and I let some of my tension go. His arm around me feels like acceptance. Like the first door is opening and somehow there is a beautiful man on the other side willing to be everything I need right now. I turn in his arm and rest my face in the crook of his neck. His arms wrap tightly around my shoulders and mine around his waist, and I hold on for dear life because I can’t do this without him and looking at that picture made me realize that I have to do something. I don’t want to look like her. I don’t want to have regrets over what could have happened if I had just let everything flow out of me. I hate living like this. I hate denying who I am. I hate lying.
I’m crying now, full on bawling like a baby, but I no longer give a shit. I need to let this go. I need to let everything out. If I don’t, I feel like I’m gonna implode.
Brighton pulls me in tighter, and I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. Everything about this man feels safe and secure. And for the first time I feel like things will be okay. That there is a possibility I can be who I want to be and my entire world won’t combust because of it.
When I feel like I can stand on my own again, I ease myself off him, but I don’t let go of him, and he doesn’t let go of me as we stand staring at each other. “Some serious shit is happening inside of here, huh?” he whispers as his hands move to cup my face and his thumbs drag over my temples.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep living like this.”
“Okay,” he whispers. I look at his calm expression. I grasp on to that single word, and I believe it.
One day, hopefully soon, things are gonna be okay.
Chapter Six
Brighton
EVERY STOP Jay and I make today brings us somewhere new. Like we’re packing a year of experiences into one day. And every time we get back in the Bronco, we’re different versions of Brighton and Jay. Which feels like a real legit thing now.
Jay and I are something.
At the very least, we’re friends. Friends who got caught up in one seriously mind-blowing kiss. But I can’t think about that. Right now, I need to focus on being a friend because it’s clear he needs one.