You, With a View(2)

So, Dad was out. And if he was out, everyone else in my family was, too. They’d just turn around and tell him.

I’d spent enough time on TikTok to know it was equal parts useless and transformative—insipid dance routines mixed with reunion videos that made me sob into my pillow at two a.m. If I posted the information I’d found and made it compelling enough, there was a chance someone would see it. There was a chance someone would know.

Maybe they’d know something about the collection of photos and the single letter Gram squirreled away for over sixty years. Maybe they’d know the handsome man in the pictures with wavy dark hair and a deep dimple named Paul—it was written on the back of the pictures in a steadier version of her loop-happy handwriting, along with the years: 1956 and 1957.

She married Grandpa Joe in 1959 after a whirlwind romance. I know their story by heart—Gram loved to tell it to me. But she never uttered Paul’s name, not once, and that’s strange. We played a game we affectionately called Tell Me a Secret constantly. I always told her mine, and she told me hers.

So I thought.

Before gathering up the nerve to look at the comments and confirm whether my answer is there, I decide to rewatch the video.

I press my thumb to the screen, and it starts up, playing the Lord Huron song I chose for maximum heartstring pullage. The text I added overlays each picture I hold up in the frame, the chipped mint polish on my thumb a stark contrast to the black-and-white prints.

There’s a bite of grief looking at her face, which in its youth looked so much like mine. The architecture of our features is the same; people have always told us that. Twins separated by fifty or so years. Soulmates born in different decades.

The first picture is Gram and Paul standing in front of a house I don’t recognize. The text on the screen reads: My grandmother passed away recently. I found these pictures of her and a man I never knew.

Then it’s them at the beach, her looking up at Paul with a flirty grin on her face: The only info I have is his name is Paul and they knew each other in Glenlake, CA, sometime around 1956.

Next, it’s a picture of them embracing, her cheek pressed against his chest, eyes closed: Her name is Kathleen, and I believe she was twenty in these photos.

The last is Paul sitting at a picnic table, his chin propped in his hand, gazing into the camera in a way that reveals who was behind it: This is a long shot, but if you recognize him, please reach out. Gram never mentioned him, but he looks important. I really need to hear their story.

There’s a thread of commonality running through each picture: they were always looking at each other and smiling. Often in each other’s arms. In many of the shots, Gram was looking up at Paul with hearts in her eyes.

And his heart clearly belonged to her. If I hadn’t known it by the way he looked at her, the letter he wrote said it out loud.

I peel back the duvet to make sure Mom is still occupied. There’s sweat dripping down her face, her attention laser-focused on the screen in front of her. I might as well not be here.

Perfect. I pull out the letter I stashed under my spare pillow, smoothing over a crease with my thumb.

    July 1, 1957

Dearest Kat,

I understand why we can’t elope. I truly do. I just want you to be well.

The end of our relationship won’t stop me from loving you for the rest of my life. I don’t know if that helps or hurts. The only thing I ask is that you remember what we promised each other: never forget our time together, and think of it with happiness.

I promised you it would be okay, do you remember? And it will.

Yours always,

Paul



I can say with certainty no one has ever loved me like that. So why did she say goodbye?

I’ve never put my face or voice in anything I’ve uploaded. Even my username is anonymous, just user and a random mix of numbers. But now Gram and Paul’s faces are there, and 2.3 million people have seen it, and I don’t feel bad. My grandmother loved this man, but I can’t ask her anything. She can’t tell me this secret.

So, if Paul is still alive, I hope he’ll tell me for her.

I slip the letter back into its hiding place, then flip onto my back, picking my phone up to go comment diving.

But before I can get there, the duvet is unceremoniously ripped off my head. For the second time today, I drop my phone on my face.

“Fuck!” I yell, covering my face with my hands. My flailing legs connect with a body.

“Fuck back!” The familiar voice groans. “You got me in the balls!”

“I can’t hear Cody’s instructions!” Mom puffs over the instructor’s shouts and her Lamaze-adjacent breathing pattern.

I uncover my face to find my younger brother, Thomas, doubled over, his forehead resting on my bed, hands tucked between his legs. His breathing pattern is Lamaze-adjacent, too.

In the middle of all the ruckus, my dad pokes his blond head through my doorway, a bright smile on his face. “Does anyone want eggs Benny? I thought we could do brunch since Thomas is here.”

I rip my scrunched duvet out from under Thomas’s head, yanking it back over my legs. “I would love everyone to get out of my room. Remember my rule about not being in here when I don’t have pants on?”

“I’m almost done,” Mom pants. “I’m about to PR.”

Thomas groans.