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.
God, same. My good eye strays back to my phone as a slew of notifications bubble up onscreen. I’m desperate to check, but I don’t dare in a room full of Shepards who don’t know about any of this.
Thomas rebounds, his sea-green eyes turning sharp with curiosity as he sees my lit-up screen. Looking at him is like looking in a mirror, minus the eleven months between us; we have the same honey-blond hair and dark eyebrows, but my eyes are the color of coffee dregs.
He nods his chin toward my phone. “What’s going on?”
I flip it on its face. “Nothing.”
“Your Tinder blowing up, Beans?” He smirks. “What a catch.”
Dad has disappeared to start on the eggs Benedict, and Mom is busy celebrating the end of her ride, along with her PR. I take a risk, putting both of my middle fingers in Thomas’s face.
“Knock it off, you two,” Mom says, out of breath.
Thomas cackles, sliding out the door. If I didn’t have chronic back pain, I’d swear I was fifteen again. Being in this house makes us both regress.
Mom jumps off the bike, an exhilarated smile on her face. She turns to the be awesome sign behind her, pulling the string. It only gets illuminated if she feels it’s deserved. It zaps on, the pink light turning her face even redder.
Her dark hair is damp around the edges of her ponytail, and her eyes go soft when they meet mine. Same as they always do lately.
“You good?” she asks, and it’s not perfunctory, exactly, but we both know I’m not.
Still, I say my line with ease. “Yep.”
Her quiet sigh indicates she doesn’t believe me. Fair. I don’t, either. “Well, it’s eleven, so maybe you want to get out of bed?”
Be awesome, indeed.
* * *
The unread comments whisper urgently all through brunch. I shovel my dad’s eggs Benedict into my mouth, nearly choking.
Just what I need, death by Canadian bacon.
I’m tempted to pull my phone out no less than one million times, but it’ll invite questions I’m not prepared to answer. My family is nosy on a regular day. Since I had to move home, they’ve turned into helicopters, clearly concerned that I’m one job rejection email away from losing my shit.
I finish my breakfast in record time, slamming my fork down like I’m the winner of a Benny-eating contest no one else entered. “Done, see you.”
“Why, do you have plans?” Thomas asks over the screech of my chair and around a mouthful of food.
“Why, does it matter?” I shoot back.
He lifts an eyebrow. “I just got here, and you’re already ditching me?”
“Mas, you slither up from the city whenever Sadie has plans that don’t involve you. I’m sure I’ll see you in mere days.”
“I don’t slither,” he grumbles, though his expression softens at the mention of his longtime girlfriend—and my best friend. The softness is replaced by mischief as he pulls a magazine from his lap, curled open to a specific page. “We didn’t have time to discuss this.”
“What, that Maxim still exists or that you’re still subscrib—”
What I’m looking at sinks in, and I snatch the magazine from Thomas’s hand with a gasp.
He leans back in his seat, grinning. “Your boy Theo Spencer is one of Forbes 30 Under 30.”
I snort. “My boy? You’re the one who had a crush on him throughout high school. He was a pain in my ass. On purpose.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” he says smugly.
I ignore him, and the two men bracketing Theo in the picture, instead staring at the face that’s vexed me for years. That wavy dark hair, the barely there dimple that pops when he smirks. Those deep blue eyes shaded by stern eyebrows that curve into cockiness with infuriating regularity. At least, they did when I last saw him years ago.