The red digits of my bedside clock cast an eerie glow upon my journal, and my stomach knots with dread.
Somehow, I know.
That dream wasn’t just a dream.
28
THE LAST PHOTOGRAPH
When Len Ebely calls after church, he doesn’t sound alarmed or suspicious. He doesn’t ask any worrying questions. He doesn’t demand to know who the camera belonged to. He just says the photos are done and we can come get them anytime.
I stare out my kitchen window waiting for Jude to pick me up—memories from yesterday’s float building and last night’s dream, along with the prospect of seeing these photographs, coalescing into a jumble of nerves. By the time Jude pulls to a stop outside, it takes every ounce of restraint to walk at a normal pace.
I slide into the passenger seat and quickly pull the belt across my lap—a safety precaution, sure. But also a necessity. Like if I don’t anchor myself in place, I might float off the seat. Notuntil I’m properly buckled do I dare a look at Jude.
His gaze lifts to my hair.
“What?” I say, flattening my palm over the crown of my head, where every so often, a cowlick misbehaves.
“It’s nothing. You just have, well …” He reaches across the console, and with a touch so light I can barely feel it, he teases something free.
A speck of glitter twinkles on the tip of his finger.
We share a smile.
“I think my hair might sparkle for eternity,” I say, picturing Jude with his sleeves rolled up, a hammer in hand. He didn’t have to help me pick up the glitter bins. He didn’t have to stay and build floats, either.
But he did.
And when a glitter fight erupted, he didn’t stand on the sidelines, either. Brooding Jude Vandenberg joined the fray, and somehow, his arm ended up around my waist, both of us laughing at the absurd amount of glitter in my hair.
My smile widens at the memory.
Jude’s gaze dips to my lips.
And the playful vibe melts into molten lava. The heat is too hot to take. Breaking eye contact, I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and give my throat a nervous clear. Effectively dousing the moment in cold water.
Jude shifts his car into drive.
I curse my cowardice.
And my own morbid curiosity.
Because I know what I’m about to ask. I can feel the question rising within me. No amount of self-control will tamp it down.
I fidget with the strap of my seatbelt. “Hey, Jude?”
He glances at me as we ease to a stop in front of the gate.
“What happened to your parents?”
For a moment, he looks stricken.
And I want to take it back, strike it from the record—this question that badgered me throughout the entirety of church.
But I can’t rewind time.
The question has been asked.
