Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

Her voice has grown loud in the quiet noise of her own thoughts. She’s been thinking about you, and what you gave to each other. She’s been thinking about loving you and what that meant. Your hearts were joined, beating in unison, but then they fractured, blood pooling and spilling in the darkness, and then they broke and that was that really. She still thinks about you a lot. Your lives unstitched themselves, but the loose threads remain where the garment was torn.

Under what conditions does unconditional love break? She cried for you yesterday. She has decided to submit to her tears rather than understand them. It’s been a year at this point, but she knows she will always cry for you.

The thing that undid her was the memory of being seen. Do you remember? In the barbershop. She was in the chair. She remembers her presence changing the dynamic in the room; the presence of a woman in this masculine space meant everyone was either on their best behaviour or acting out. But in the moment she’s referring to, quiet fell. You were watching her in the mirror, and she was gazing back at you. The barber cut the power of his clippers, to address you and her, to try to describe what he had seen pass between you, to let you know he saw you both. His excited chatter brought on smiles all round, nods of agreement. What more was there to say?

Language fails us, always. You told her that words were flimsy, so it was funny when you chose to write this. But she’s grateful that you were able to give her this honest reality of yours. Lately, she’s been thinking of other ways to say what cannot be rendered in language. She bought a camera, one like yours, an old 35mm. She has always wanted to take photos; there was a photo she saw at an exhibition which helped her make the jump: Roy DeCarava’s Couple Dancing, 1956. The woman is wearing a white dress, the man a dark suit. Their figures emerge from the darkness, light catching hold of their limbs. They are pressed close, rhythm captured in the stillness. She saw you and her in that photo, in the glint of light on the woman’s cheeks, in the man’s arm clasped around the woman’s back. In the trust and love being portrayed where light and dark were coexisting. And it’s now she understands what you meant when you said the bulk of the camera felt heavier in your hands than it should. Seeing people is no small task.

She’d like to return to a memory of the present: you’re both sitting on the hill in the park. It’s been a year and your face is unchanged. Golden hour has come and gone, blue hour in its place, swathing you both in the soft hue of possibility. She begins to shiver and you offer your jacket, draping it over her shoulders. You’re both enjoying the comfort of each other’s silence. What more is there to say? She glances towards you and pulls her camera out of her bag. You joked as a photographer that you spent time chasing light, but you should’ve also said you bent darkness as well. She trains her lens on you and holds her breath before depressing the shutter. When the photo is developed, she’s sure, if you look closely, you’ll see the shadows cast across your skin, the eyes both seeing her and seeing the world, the honesty resting calmly on your features. If you look closely, you might see a tear making a journey from eye to cheek, as you cry for her. If you look closely, you’ll see what she has always seen, what she always will: you.

Acknowledgements

To Seren Adams, I’ll always remember our first meeting, where Open Water began. Thank you for all the support, editorial and otherwise, through the process. You’re the best agent a writer could ask for, and a wonderful friend.

To my editors, Isabel Wall and Katie Raissian, thank you for taking so much time and care and affording this novel such a deep sensitivity. I’m beyond grateful.

To the team at Viking Books, thank you for working so hard to make this happen.

To my writing people: Belinda Zhawi, Candice ­Carty-­Williams, Raymond Antrobus, Yomi ode, Sumia Jaama, Victoria ­Adukwei ­Bulley, Kareem Parkins-Brown, Amina Jama, Joanna ­Glen – your words of advice and encouragement really got me over the line. Thank you.

To the homies: Krys Osei, Deborah Bankole, Rob Eddon, Stuart Ruel, Niamh Fitzmaurice, Justin Marosa, Courage Khumalo, Sam Akinwumi, Thomas McGregor, Charlotte Scholten, Nick Ajagbe, Alex Lane, Ife Morgan, Archie Forster, Louise Jesi, Chase Edwards, MK Alexis, Dave Alexis, Nicos Spencer, Law Olaniyi, Natasha Rachael Sidhu, Steffan Davies, Lex Guelas, Chrisia Borda, Mariam Moalin, Monica Arevalo, Luani Vaz, Charlie Glen, Diderik Ypma, Krystine Atti, Zoë Heimann and Cara Baker.

To Sue, thank you for always making me feel welcome and loved.

To Jashel and Jumal, thank you for always believing in me, and for pulling me up when my faith waned.

To Mum and Dad, I know how much you sacrificed in order for me to get to where I am now. I love you both, so much.

To Grandma, I know you’re still smiling and singing for me.

Es, there aren’t the words, but I won’t stop trying.