Her expression sharpened.
“Delete it.”
“I will if you want.”
“Did you post it?”
“No.”
“Send it to anyone?”
“No.”
“Why take it?”
Because you looked safe. Because I wanted proof of a moment no one else had. Because my camera roll had become full of small things that involved her.
“You looked peaceful,” I said.
Amy held out her hand.
“Let me see.”
I gave her the phone. She studied the photo, and the line between her brows eased.
“I look tired.”
“You ran six miles.”
“My hair is uneven.”
“Scandal.”
She kept looking. Then she handed the phone back.
“You can keep it.”
The permission affected me more than it should have.
“Private,” she added.
“Private.”
We left the diner. Outside, the streets were nearly empty. The city had quieted into traffic lights and distant music. Amy stood beside me while I ordered a car.
“Sunday,” she said.
“Family dinner.”
“We tell Gloria first.”
“Yes.”
“And Lola?”
“We tell her the relationship is complicated.”
A car moved through the intersection, its tires whispering over the pavement. Amy watched it pass instead of looking at me.
