The Way To Aja

Chapter Seven: Rain, Bikerides, and Phonecalls

  Kyan pulled her blue sedan into the driveway of a one-story, small, white house. The paint was chipped in the places and the roof looked like it could certainly use a remodel, but other than that the house looked relatively well taken care of. The lawn looked fresh and moed, and the shoes and boots sitting on the door step were organized. His jeep was parked in the driveway to the left of Rorry's car; Juliet had driven it home when she had come from Egilsstadir three days earlier. Kyan lived on the outskirts of Reykjavik in a fairly unpopulated neighborhood, and he said that the lack of excitement gave him a better envirement for his journalism.

Rorry, who had driven most of the way from Akureyri, walked up the path along the house from the driveway a few feet behind her friend, examining his house. She was wearing black skinny jeans and a loose, light grey hoodie with the hood thrown back. Kyan's clothes nearly matched hers, although his hoodis hoodie was black. A dog barked from inside as they got to the front door, and Rorry laughed. Kyan fished around in his backpack for his house keys, and opened the door and was met with a golden retirever hurdling towards them.

"Hey, Girlie!" Kyan laughed, running his hands over her head before heading inside. The dog instantly moved onto to greet the girl, who sank to her knees petting her and placing kisses on her snout and was (whats the word?)ed by recieving licks to the face.

"Valkyrie!" Rorry laughed before grabbing her dropped backs and ushering Valkyrie inside. Kyan had gotten Valkyrie when he was sixteen and she had often joined Kyan and Rorry on their roadtrips around the island untill Rorry left. The day before, Kyan had convinced Rorry to come stay at his place in Reykjavik for a few days.

"Nice place, Ky." Rorry told her friend, wandering into the large living room to her left, Valkyrie bounding after her. The floors of the living room were carpeted, and old sofas sat against the large wall to the left. The walls were a cream color, that Rorry honestly thought was a bit ugly, but she knew that Kyan didn't care. To make up for it many paintings, both large and small, and detailed and abstract, hung from wherever there was space.

"Who did all these, Kyan?" One of the far wall in particular caught her attention. It seemed familiar and it took a few moments for Rorry to realize why. It was a painting of two brunette children about the age of six or seven running side-by-side in a field. Skógafoss waterfall could be seen in the background behind the kids' backs. It had been a beautiful day in late spring and Kyan's and Rorry's parents had decided to go on a trip around the island together. When Rorry had been fifteen, she had come across a box of photographs from her childhood in her dad's attic. As a sixteenth-birthday present for Kyan, she had made a beautiful painting of the photograph.

"Most I got in random art shops and thrift stores, some you painted." As he said that she had began to recognize a few other paintings that she had painted in her late teen years.

"I can't believe you have all these," she told him, eyes catching on the painting she had done at seventeen of Max on her dad's front porch.

"C'mon, I'll show you the rest of the house." Kyan said, ushering her out of the room, Valkyrie on their heels.

The rest of the house wasn't anything special. Kyan wasn't much for appearances, and the paint was old, the floors dusty. To the right of the front door he had a small kitchen with old and well-used appliances that was connected to a dining room with just a round table with four chairs that was just as small as the kitchen. Down the hall from the front door was a tiny office for Kyan's writing and his bedroom.

Kyan wrote for Reykjavik's local paper, The Reykjavik Grapevine, and would sometimes lend his talents to other papers that covered stories in, or about, Iceland. He had originally intended to be a photojournalist, but had soon found that with today's technology he would have better luck with employing his writing skills rather than photography.