I cut the engine, but she doesn’t move to get out, so I don’t either. Stealing quiet glances at her profile, I’m still stunned by the effect she has on me. Her hair, not quite as long as it was in college, falls in a curtain of sun-kissed blonde, partially shielding her face from view. It takes every ounce of self-control not to tuck it behind her ear and memorize her face from scratch, all over again.
Reaching across, I place my left hand on hers, her thumb going still. With one finger, she lightly brushes my ring finger, which is bare. No wedding ring, never has been. Then, like she didn’t mean to do it, she jerks her hand back to her lap.
She lifts her head and our eyes meet. Hers—that unforgettable shade of blue—light up, despite whatever has her shoulders so tense. My gaze drops to her full pink lips I still remember the taste of. I’m hit with a sudden and overwhelming urge to cup her jaw and bring my mouth to hers.
“Hey, Jo. It’s been a minute.”
A smile traces her lips, brief and then gone, once again replaced with worry.
“Hey, Tyler,” she whispers the words into the silence of my car.
Usually reserved with my words, I surprise myself when they come spilling out. “I left you a note. Did you not see it?”
“I did. I got the note.”
“Then why didn’t you call? When I never heard from you I wondered if I imagined it all. Or maybe”—I rake a hand throughmy hair—“God, I don’t know, remembered the night differently than you.” My number was right there on the note I left. And yet I never heard a word from her.
Josie blinks several times, her lips parting slightly. Maybe my blatant honesty was a tad too much?
“Come inside. I think when you see what I have to show you, this will make more sense.” Josie waves one hand, cocking her head toward her house. I follow her up the uneven walkway, passing a bottle tree filled with blue wine bottles and a yard sculpture of a small metal pig with wings. We step onto the porch and she fishes around in her purse, retrieving a ring of keys to unlock the front door. I notice the screen door’s missing the hydraulic closer, so it slams against the frame behind us as we step inside.
“Wait here,” she says, turning and heading down a hallway to the right.
Scanning my surroundings, I take in the clutter. It’s not messy, per se. But a busy family clearly lives here. A pile of shoes lay haphazardly by the front door. Mail is scattered on the console table, along with a tangle of phone chargers. Absentmindedly, I stack the envelopes into a neat pile.
Moving farther into the living room, a glaringly bright pink wingback chair sits to the side of an emerald green couch, and between them there’s a side table stacked with books. On every wall framed photographs hang, each one displaying photos of two kids: a smiling boy with blond curls and the girl, Abby, who I saw today. Stepping closer, I study each photo.
Being terrible with age, I have no clue how old Abby is. She could be ten or fifteen. They all look the same to me. But with a burst of wishful thinking, I notice her dark hair and hazel eyes. Could this kid be mine? Is that even possible? Depending on her age, the math could work. My eyes linger on one photo in particular. The person behind the camera, presumably Josie, snuck a candid shot of Abby holding a flute to her lips, face twisted in deep concentration. That expression is so familiar to me.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I swipemy hand over my mouth and force that train of thought from my mind to study the rest of the photos. Her face is the spitting image of Jo, and what a beautiful girl she is.
Crossing to the other side of the room, I take in the painting that hangs above the couch. It’s a watercolor portrait of Josie’s kids. The artist captured them perfectly, almost lifelike against the canvas. My gaze drops to the bottom corner, already certain what I’ll see.
Josie Thomas. So, her last name is Thomas. One of the many unknowns from a night when I thought I had it all figured out.
“Here,” Josie says, bringing me from my thoughts. As she steps back into the room, walking to where I’m standing, Josie hands over a folded piece of paper, an offering, and I take it. With the paper clenched between my thumb and index finger, I instantly know what it is.
“Unfold it,” she commands, rocking onto the balls of her feet.
So I do.
It’s the note I left, torn from the front of my book. At some point she folded it and now the creases are soft and worn with what appears to be years of folding and unfolding. I scan it quickly, brows furrowed, but when my gaze lands on my number at the bottom, my stomach sinks. Where I’d written my number is now nothing more than a smudge of ink, completely illegible. And yet she kept it. That has to mean something, right?
“Can you explain what happened here?” I hold up the note, looking between it and Josie’s expectant eyes.
She sighs, and I lean against the arm of her couch, crossing my ankles ready to listen. Josie, on the other hand, chooses to pace back and forth in front of me, talking with her hands.
“Do you remember the next morning? The torrential downpour outside?” Her fingers trail down in front of her, mimicking rainfall.
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek at how animated she is, still so full of life. She continues her story, hands moving, likethey have no choice but to punctuate her words. It’s honestly endearing.
“I was running across campus with the note in my hand. This stupid,stupidcar came flying past and hit a puddle. That, right there, is the result.” She nods to the note and falls silent, the only sound is her uneven breaths. “But I tried. Tyler, I tried to find you for months. You aren’t the only one who felt like that night was special.” Her voice cracks and she brings a hand to her mouth. “You have no idea.” Her eyes are glistening when she stops pacing to stand directly in front of me. She looks at the ceiling for a beat, and when our eyes meet again the shine of tears is gone. Seeming marginally calmer, Josie takes a seat on the couch, crisscrossing her legs in front of her, and I move from the arm to join her.
“Being graduation weekend, people were busy, but I called everyone I could think of. Nobody remembered a guy from Texas.” She lets out a sardonic laugh. “It wasn’t exactly a night where people remembered much.”
“I remember everything,” I say quietly.
She sucks in a breath and I’m struck by her beauty again. Her eyes search mine for the truth in my statement, and I don’t know what she finds, but she glances down at her hands. I track the movement and notice her hands are once again covered in tiny paint splatters.
