Page 52 of Wild Hearts

“I know,” she sighs. “He seems really happy, doesn’t he? They both do.”

“They do,” I say slowly. “But I know they both feel terrible about what they did to your family.”

“Mmhmm.” She reaches up and swipes away the tear that slips down her cheek. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less though.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

I leave her be and we drive the rest of the way home in silence.

IFEEL LIKE MY EYESare hanging out of my head as I make my way to my photography class Monday morning. I didn’t sleep very well. Photography is one of my elective classes that I’ve added to my teaching degree. I was so excited to get into this class with world renowned photographer Axle Reid.

My dad bought me my first camera for Christmas when I was ten. It was a simple point and shoot digital camera. I used to spend hours taking photos of Mum’s garden, capturing her hydrangeas from different angles and in different lights. I was captivated by the colours, the lines, the shadows. I experimented with contrast, with symmetry, with negative space and depth of field before I even knew what those things were.

By the time we started coming to Blue Haven, I’d upgraded to a NikonD500, which allowed me to mess around with focus, shutter speed, and time lapse. I loved spending days up at Glassons Point taking photos of the surfers, the birds flying, of the waves crashing. These days, I use a Panasonic Lumix S5.

“It’s no coincidence that you are in my class,” Professor Reid announces. His face is stony and serious as he enters the lecture theatre and marches to the front of the room. “Every single one of you had your portfolios vetted by other professors before being thoroughly examined by me and shortlisted to the thirty-four of you sitting in this room right now.”

I glance around the room, taking in my classmates who are all enamoured by our professor’s presence.

Professor Reid continues. “This class is not going to be easy. I’m not going to pander to you or give you unwarranted praise. You’re going to have to work hard to earn your grades in my class. There will be three minor assignments that you will complete for grading and one major assignment that will be worth fifty per cent of your final grade. If you want to make it into my second-year class, of which I only take twenty students, you will need to achieve no less than a ninety in this class. Understood?” His beady eyes travel the room and my stomach flutters as I nod along with the rest of the students.

“Good.” He grins for the first time and taps on his computer bringing up an image. It’s an old man wearing a tailored suit standing in a graveyard with a young boy who’s wearing an oversized shirt and tie on the overhead screen. “Let’s talk juxtaposition.”

When I leave the lecture theatre forty-five minutes later, my head is spinning. I’m lost in thought about what my theme might be for my first assignment: candid moments with captions. We need to create our own blog that complements our style, and we’ll be adding to it during the length of this course. I think about my portfolio and the photographs that I submitted. I’ll need to replicate that theme.

I pull out my phone, I type a few ideas into my notes app as I open the door to the campus coffee shop. With my eyes down, I trip over something and lose my balance.

“Woah,” someone says, jumping out of his seat to save me from face planting.

“Sorry,” I mutter, my face heating up as I glance back and forth between Harley and Brady, who is leaning down to pick up the crutches that have clattered to the floor. “I wasn’t paying attention.” Brady grunts in response and my cheeks redden even more.

“I’ve gotta get to class,” Harley says. “Thanks for the chat, Brady. I appreciate it. I’ll catch you two later.”

I watch, frozen in place, as Harley grabs his bag and takes off. When the door closes behind him, I come to my senses and mutter another, “Sorry,” in Brady’s direction. I’ve only taken a couple of steps toward the counter when I hear Brady clear his throat.

“Do you want to join me, Rookie?”

My breath hitches. I thought he was furious at me, but the way he says it almost wistfully, I find myself nodding before I can think twice about it. I head to the counter and place my order. I half expect Brady to be gone by the time I make my way back to his table, but he’s still sitting there, fiddling with a packet of sugar. I hesitate before sitting down, dropping my bag at my feet with a quiet plop.

“How are you?” I ask.

Brady stares down at the knee brace. “I’ve been better,” he admits.

“I’m sorry. I know how hard it must be not being able to get out in the water.” For as long as I’ve known him, Brady has gone surfing every single day. Even when he was fifteen and he had glandular fever, he still set his alarm and went for a surf with his dad before his mum woke up. Elouise was furious when she found out, but she knew there was no stopping him.

Brady gives me a noncommittal shrug. An uncomfortable silence falls between us. He distracts himself tracing patterns on the table while I stir my vanilla latte. I know I need to talk to him about Theo’s Baptism, but I’m not sure how to bring it up.

We both speak at the same time.

“About yesterday–”

“I’m sorry about Saturday.”

We smile shyly at one another, which breaks the tension, even if it’s just a little.

“You first,” he says.

I shake my head, desperate to hear what’s going on in his head after what happened in my living room. I’m afraid if I speak first, he’ll shut down and I’ll kick myself for not knowing what he’s apologizing for. “No, you go.”

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