His hair moves in the breeze, and his hands are lined and spotted as they move over another photo. Despite the obvious signs of his age, he looks strong, at least a decade younger than he is.
Gram looked strong, too. She was strong, driving like a demon up until the day before she died, when we went on a hike at Tennessee Valley. She played tennis with me regularly, and whupped my ass at it, too, even though I kept up the hobby after high school.
And yet she died in her sleep three days before Thanksgiving. She had the ingredients for her famous pumpkin pie stacked up on the counter. She wasn’t ready. I wasn’t, either.
A streak of jealousy runs through me like electricity. Like poison. I begrudge Theo for being able to grab a cup of coffee with his granddad when I’ll never see Gram again. It makes me want to grab onto Paul’s hand, hold him hostage until he tells me every detail of their story. Every anecdote about her—that feistiness, the way she’d clap her hands when something really delighted her. Her loud, boisterous laugh that could make your ears ring if she did it in a small room. The other things I apparently don’t know.
I want to twist my hands around his memories like I’m wringing out a towel so I can get it all in one fell swoop.
“What happened?” I ask. I can’t help myself. “I mean, the pictures—that letter—you were clearly in love. Why did you separate? You said she left school. Why?”
Paul dips his chin, pinning me with a look equal parts stern and kind. “You’re impatient to know it all right now.”
“No, not at all.” I backpedal like my life depends on it. I don’t want him to stop talking because I’ve pushed too far.
It’s only when Theo presses his finger against my knee that I notice it’s bouncing. “You’re vibrating.”
I push his hand away, rubbing the skin he touched, then cover it with my palm so he won’t see the goosebumps.
“I’d like to tell you the story, Noelle, but it’s not going to happen all in one day,” Paul says.
“Granddad—” Theo starts, sitting up straight.
Paul’s gaze flickers to Theo, then back to me. A whisper of a smile alights on his lips, a secret one. “You want to know everything, and I’ll answer any questions you have. But I’d like to request more of your time to do so.”
“Of course. I have nothing but time.” Shit. That doesn’t sound like something a thriving person would say. “I mean, yes, I will absolutely find the time. Just tell me when and where.”
“Let me check my date book when I get home,” Paul says. “I do have a few things planned next week, and I don’t want to double-book you.”
“God forbid you miss poker afternoon with your frat buddies,” Theo mumbles, but his voice is affectionate. It gives the texture of his voice a softer feel.
“Soon enough they’ll all be dead. Got to get my time in with them while I can,” Paul replies jovially. He turns to me. “Why don’t we exchange numbers and we can chat.”
“That sounds perfect.” I input the number Paul rattles off into my phone, then call it so he has my number, too.
Theo leans forward to catch my eye. “Isn’t it easier if I message you with logistics stuff?”
I spare him a glance. “Nope. Paul and I can take it from here.”
“Right.” Theo’s phone starts shimmying with an incoming call. I catch the contact name—Dad—before he turns it facedown, his jaw tight. Paul’s eyebrows cinch together, his gaze lingering on his grandson’s phone, as Theo lets out a sharp breath. “Are we done for the day? I have to get back to work, and I need to drop this freeloader off at home first.”
I push down my disappointment, reminding myself this is the beginning, not the end. “Lots of Forbes 30 Under 30 things to do today, huh?”
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to absolutely destroy myself. It’s the LinkedIn incident times ten.
But Theo’s reaction is nothing like I expect. He doesn’t smirk or say something cocky. Instead, it’s like watching someone’s power switch get turned off. He just . . . shuts down.
“Bye, Shepard,” he says blankly, swiping his phone off the table. His chair screeches against the concrete as he stands and stalks a few paces away.
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.