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.”
“Not nearly as much as I enjoyed it. I’m so tickled you know my Teddy. What a small world.”
Too small. “It’s been a long time, but it was . . . uh, interesting to see him again. He was always very ambitious in high school. I’m not surprised to see him doing well now.”
“Yes, well,” Paul says, a bit of the cheer draining from his tone. “Sometimes a little too ambitious for his own good, but we’re working on that together.”
That sounds . . . weird. “Right.”
“At any rate, I was hoping you might want to come to my house for lunch and a chat.”
I stand, wincing against the ache in my back. If nothing else, I need to move out soon so I can escape this mattress. “Sounds great. When were you thinking?”
“Tomorrow would be best if you don’t mind. Can you come by at noon?”
“I’ll be there.” I was going to go on a hike, but I can do that . . . well, anytime. “Should I bring us lunch? I can stop by a great Thai place near me if you’d like.”
“Oh no, I’ll have lunch ready to go. Just bring yourself.”
“You got it.” I scramble for a pen in the desk Mom keeps in the room. “What’s your address?”
He rattles it off, and for lack of any paper around me, I transcribe it onto my leg. It’s in Novato, which is about fifteen minutes north of Glenlake.
“Perfect.” I stare down at the address on my goosebump-textured skin. “I can’t wait.”
My mind swirls with questions after we hang up. Has he been here this whole time? If so, did Gram know? Did they speak at all after Paul sent that letter, or has it been over sixty years of silence?
The questions don’t end. Not for the first time, I wonder how long it will take until I’m satisfied by the answers.
I wonder, too, what will happen if the answers aren’t enough.
* * *
Paul lives in a small ranch-style house on a quiet street shaded by oak trees. I pull up to the curb and sit for a minute, the car engine ticking in the silence.
I chose a dress since it’s unseasonably warm for April, but now I feel overdressed and awkward. Though Paul has proven to be the nicest man ever, I’m nervous to see him.
There’s another feeling, too, and my chest ticks like the cooling engine of my Prius. With the departure of Gram, I’m left without any grandparents at all. Grandpa Joe left us five years ago, and Mom’s parents died when I was a kid. An entire generation who won’t witness all of my future memories. I’m too young to have lost them all, but it is what it is. And yet here’s Paul, a grandparent himself, inviting me into his life like I didn’t barge in demanding answers to questions that may be painful for him. Inviting me into a space that’s been empty for the past six months.
Maybe that’s what it is—having something halfway and knowing it’s not really yours.
I hope Theo knows how lucky he is.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab my bag from the passenger seat, looping it over my shoulder as I make my way up to the driveway. There’s a Hyundai SUV parked there, along with the most beautiful soft-top Ford Bronco I’ve ever seen.
“Go, Paul.” I stop at the driver’s side door to peek in. The exterior is a sexy cherry red, the seats a buttery brown leather. The interior is spotless save for a water bottle in the cup holder and a bag of soil on the floor of the backseat.
I squint at it, then down at my dress with tiny flowers dotted all over it. It’s garden inspired, sure, but I hope Paul’s not going to put me to work. I have whatever is the opposite of a green thumb.
With one last lingering look at the car of my dreams, I make my way up to the front door. A generic-looking welcome mat lies in front of it, but otherwise the porch is empty. I frown, looking around. Given the soil in his backseat, I’d take Paul for a plant guy, but it almost looks like he just moved in.
It takes a few moments after my jaunty knock before the door swings open to Paul, who’s wearing an adorable cardigan, pristine white Converse, and a wide smile.
He steps back to make room for me. “Hello, Noelle, dear! You’re right on time, come on in.”
Whatever nerves I felt disappear in the path of his sweet warmth. “Thanks, it’s great to see you again. I was just admiring your Bronco.”
His white brows pull together in confusion, then smooth out. His reply is a beat late, but no less friendly. If anything, he kicks it up a notch. “Ah, yes. Are you hungry? I thought we could eat first, then I have some things to show you.”
“That sounds wonderful,” I say, hanging my bag on the coatrack in the foyer.
He leads me through the living room, bright and gorgeously furnished in a midcentury style. It’s the type of interior design my dad, an architect, would drool over. I slide a look at Paul, wondering who this guy is, but my gaze snags on a wall made up entirely of framed pictures.