You, With a View(10)

I have very little time to wonder how I wiggled my way out of that one, or what exactly crawled up Theo’s ass. Paul hands me the photos and letter, then takes my hand in both of his after I’ve tucked our treasures in my bag.

“I’m very glad you found me, Noelle,” he says, his expression earnest, a mix of pleasure and melancholy. “I hope you get what you need out of this new friendship.”

My throat pinches with emotion. “Me too. We’ll talk soon.”

Paul walks to Theo, his hands in the pockets of his perfectly pressed khaki pants. Theo’s eyes slip past his granddad to me, and for an extended moment, we stare at each other. He breaks contact first, his hand slipping to Paul’s back to help him down the subtle slope in the sidewalk.

I let out a breath, suddenly exhausted. Exhilarated. Scared about what I might find out, and how that might reshape the picture I’ve painted of Gram.

I push that last emotion away and hike my bag onto my shoulder, preparing to make the trek back to my car.

But I swipe the fancy-ass sparkling water off the table before I go.





Four





I decide I’ll let Paul make the first move with our next date. I’m terrible at waiting, though, so by the time the weekend ends, I’m crawling out of my skin.

It’s the only excuse I’ll allow myself for digging out my Glenlake High senior yearbook: boredom. Restlessness. An excuse not to stare at my phone. It doesn’t have anything to do with seeing Theo, which I’m still wrapping my mind around.

Of all the people in the world, he had to be Paul’s grandson? Beyond a few accidental run-ins over the years, I haven’t seen him in forever, and this is how he reenters my life? It feels like fate, but not the good kind. The Final Destination kind.

With a sigh, I drop onto my bed, flipping the yearbook open.

I typically suppress my memories from high school. Not because they were terrible, but because they were the last time I had my shit together.

Theo and I are both sprinkled heavily throughout the book. No surprise. Not only were we at the top of our class, but we played tennis all four years, and he also played varsity soccer. I was the queen of extracurriculars, though my favorite by far was photography.

I worked my ass off and got into UC Santa Barbara, but when I got there, it was clear I was a minuscule fish in a massive pond. Teachers didn’t know my name, nor did they care. No one gave a shit that I was smart; they were, too, and they’d speak over me in class to prove it. I had a shitty roommate, I was lonely, and my freshman year GPA decimated my confidence.

As I scraped my way through school, I struggled to find my place. Even photography, which had always been something to escape into, felt like a slog. There were at least ten people in my photography electives who were better than me. It grated against every perfectionist bone in my body. I crawled over the finish line at graduation, but I was battered and bruised and incredibly disillusioned. Every label I’d ever given myself now felt like a lie. College, and my subsequent struggle to carve out a meaningful career path, all but confirmed it.

Meanwhile, Theo had flourished at UC Berkeley, where his parents were alumni. Our mutual friends loved to give me updates on him—his internships, the semester he spent abroad in Hong Kong, the cushy job he landed at Goldman Sachs. He was probably making money hand over fist. And there I was, fresh out of college, determined to find a way to make photography my main source of income. I started assisting a portrait photographer, who was brilliant but a total bastard, in hopes of eventually ditching my desk job. After a year of sacrificing weekends to Enzo, who vacillated wildly between tepid praise and molten admonishments, I was fired when I didn’t get a specific shot at a wedding. No doubt the catering staff working that night can still hear him screaming “you’ll never amount to anything” in their sleep. God knows I do.

Deep down, I feared he was right. There was plenty of evidence to support it. My photography aspirations flamed out after that, despite my family’s insistence I keep trying. I took pictures, but only for myself. I stopped hearing my own voice in my head, or even Gram’s. It was only Enzo’s, telling me I wasn’t special, that I’d never make it. I believed him. Maybe I still do.

Some people really do keep climbing. And some people, like me, peak in high school.

I flip to my and Theo’s senior portraits, which are side by side. Shepard and Spencer: a match made in alphabetical hell.

He’s intensely serious, in a mug shot kind of way. It’s the same expression his dad wore every time I saw him. I don’t think the man ever looked happy, and now I wonder if the dimple skipped a generation. What a waste. Despite the irritating package it comes with, Theo does have a beautiful smile.

The thought comes before I can squash it: I wish I could photograph him. In my head, I line up a shot from Friday: Theo watching his granddad, those eyebrows softened by affection. The phantom weight of a camera in my hands is heavy, and I clench my fingers around the lost-limb feeling.

My phone rings, breaking me out of my disturbing daydream, which is even more disturbing when I see who’s calling.

I answer, chirping out a strangled, “Paul!”

“Hello, sweetheart,” he says cheerfully. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

I look around my room, as still as the rest of the house. My parents won’t be home for another three hours. “Not at all. I’m in a bit of a work lull right now, so this is perfect.” I blaze right through that understatement. “I’m glad you called. I really enjoyed meeting you on Friday.”