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xiii. epilogue
THE GIRL SAT AT HER BEDROOM WINDOW, waiting. The warm breeze from outside caressed her face, and she closed her eyes, letting her mind wander.
Looking at her, you never would have thought that summer had been any different. Same camera hanging round her neck, same beat-up Chuck Taylors, same focused expression, as though planning the next photograph.
But, if you looked more closely, you would have noticed a few new details; the set of her shoulders, sure and steady. The fierce light in her eyes. But most importantly, the thin red scar on each palm, livid and tender, a reminder of her friends and the things they had overcome.
She reached for the shoebox sitting beside her, holding it gently as though it held some priceless treasure. Lifting the lid off, she smiled as her eyes roved over the photographs inside.
She had gotten them developed earlier that day, little fragments of that summer that she remembered fondly; one of them at the quarry, splashing around and laughing; one of Bill riding Silver, his face serious albeit the humorous twinkle in his eyes; one of Mike, looking intently at a history book.
There were others, too. Seeing them, she thought back to Beverly, laughing with a cigarette in one hand, head thrown back in joy; Richie whaling on the Street Fighter machine at the arcade, brow furrowed; and of Stan at the bar mitzvah, at the meadow, at Neibolt, his presence as comforting and constant as the stars.
She held one photo in particular, a snapshot of her, Richie and Stan after the bar mitzvah. Grinning to herself, she remembered how they had laughed so much that day, how that summer she had laughed for the first time since Isaac had died.
Once the photos had been put away safely, she sat on the bed, gazing out of the window dreamily. Her Walkman lay on her lap, the mixtape inside making her close her eyes and sigh happily.
Then, a noise filled the air around her, a short burst of static interference. Scrambling upright, she took the earphones off, hearing that familiar voice on the walkie talkie.
"...You there, V?"
She hit the broadcast button, peering out the window at the boy in the house beside her.
"I'm here, over. Look outside,"
He looked up, grinning and giving a small wave. "I see you, Summers."
"So," She settled on the bed, sitting cross-legged on the comforter. "You busy tomorrow?"
"I don't think so..?" He checked his wall, where she knew a calendar hung. "Nope. Why, you wanna do something?"
"I wanted to take a few last photos before we go back to school, while everything still looks summery, y'know? You could bring your birdwatching stuff."
He nodded, leaning over to write on the calendar. "Sounds like a plan– why're you laughing?"
Verity held up a hand, her face red. "'Cause you're such an old man," She said breathlessly.
"Fuck you, Ver,"
And then they were both laughing, their voices ringing lightly over the walkie talkies.
Stan turned his head slightly, listening intently.
"Is your mom calling you?" She asked, and he nodded.
"Yeah. See you tomorrow, Summers. Over."
"See you, Stan." She looked at him once more, smiling softly. "Over and out."
