Page 63 of You, with a View

I watched the videos about your grandma. Omg, incredible! I also looked back on your feed and your older photos are amazing too. Have you gone to Yosemite yet? I’m looking for a birthday gift for my mom next month—she loves Yosemite and has been looking for the perfect prints to put in her house. Pls let me know if I can buy some!

My heart races. Is this a sign or coincidence? If Gram had the ability to communicate with me from wherever she is, would it really be through a TikTok DM?

The uncanny timing is undeniable, though. I’m so desperate for any glimpse of her, even this way, that I tell myself it’s possible.

The urge to create something new sneaks into my veins. If Gram were truly here, she’d encourage me to do it.

It’s why I creep back into the house to get my laptop, then sit on the porch for an hour, maybe longer, sending shots to my phone. I compile them into a sixty-second clip that showcases my best edited photos of our time in Yosemite.

Once that’s done, I respond to the DM with a link to the video so she can see some of the pictures I’ve taken. I volunteer to send her additional watermarked photos if none of the ones in the video pique her interest, and I only pause for a beat before hitting send. The adrenaline and vulnerability hit me like a wave as it hurls through space to land in a stranger’s inbox.

It’s been so long since I’ve shared my work with anyone. I forgot what it’s like, how terrifying it is. How it strips you right down to the bones. I forgot, too, how good it can feel to hearI like what you did.

A small step, but it’s a step nonetheless, and the heaviness in my chest lifts, just a little bit.

There’s one thing still weighing me down: I want to end the night with Theo smiling instead of shutting me out. It should’ve gone that way—me with salt on my skin from hours of dancing against Theo’s body, my limbs stretched and tired, mind cloudless.

My thoughts drift to that video of him and Paul at the picnic table in Yosemite, Theo’s head thrown back in laughter. I imagine what it would look like if I made him laugh like that, and how it would feel.

I want to memorialize it. Isn’t that the magic of capturing moments like that? The ability to go back and visit that exact time again and again? I certainly will.

I stitch together that video with a couple others, including one of them hiking, Theo with his shirt slung over his shoulder, his backpack hiding most of his bare skin. At one point, he looks over his shoulder into my camera, and he doesn’t smile exactly, but his eyes are warm.

The introduction to Paul and Theo is compelling, and it’s only partially a testament to my talent. It’s their bond. It sings.

Everyone is going to fall in love with Theo.

That’s fine, I tell myself, caught in the lingering midnight blue of his eyes. As long as it’s not me.

Eighteen

By now, my response to Paul reaching for a letter is practically Pavlovian, so when he pulls one out on our ride to Zion the next morning, my hand is already outstretched.

Theo’s motionless next to me, his sweatshirt hood pulled over his head. I heard him in the bathroom early, when the house was still dark. He was trying to be quiet, but it was clear he was miserable.

I knew he wouldn’t let me in if I knocked on the door. So instead, I stared out the window, tracing the blackened lines of the mountains, only closing my eyes when Theo padded back into the room, the floor creaking under his feet.

Paul lays the letter in my hand. “Here you go, my dear.”

“Come back to you with questions?”

He grins, delighted by our routine. “You got it.”

I turn in my seat—only to find Theo’s face inches from mine, his eyes open and watchful.

“Jesus,” I gasp out. “You were asleep two seconds ago.”

“I was never asleep,” he says, his voice rough. “I was trying not to die.”

I hold up the letter. “Wanna read?”

He lets out a minty sigh. “It’s literally the only reason my eyes are open.”

I decide to let him get away with being grumpy; his hangover is punishment enough. I hold the letter between us so we can read it together, but my mind won’t latch on. Theo has moved in close, his arm pressed against mine, chin dipping into the space above my shoulder.

“Can you...” I press my elbow into his side.

He shifts, barely, but Ifeelthe minuscule smirk that twitches at his mouth. “Distracted?”

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