Page 39 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

She’s been keeping this memory, her beacon of hope, alive for all these years, sketching it into being as if afraid it might vanish if she stops. I picture her drawing the orchard that might not even exist, her brow furrowed and her lips pressed together in concentration.

It exists in her heart, and to me, that’s all that matters.

I turn another page, and the world around me stalls as I try to make sense of what I’m seeing. It’s the glass orchard, full of leaves and gleaming baubles, but on the hillside just below, she’s drawn me as a kid giving Noah a piggyback. It’s identical to a photograph hanging in my house on the island, right down to the dirt on our knees. It’s one of my favorite memories, taken in Ghana. We were hiking back from a spot where we’d gone so my mother could photograph antelopes. The terrain was rocky, and Noah, at three, was full of determination to keep up, until his spindly legs finally gave out. I hoisted him onto my back, and as he locked his arms around my neck so tight he nearly choked me, our mother called my name. As I turned, Noah said, “I love you, Sef. You’re my hero,” and she caught the moment he said it, my smile cracking wide.

My mother used to say that the best things she photographed weren’t the animals, jungles, or sunsets. She never told us what the best things were, and it wasn’t until I was in my twenties, looking through old pictures with her, that I finally understood what she meant. It was us. Our family. My beacon in any storm.

I linger on that drawing for a long time, wondering why Ellie chose to sketch it. Then I continue turning pages, taking in more beautiful sketches, stopping when I come to a familiar scene. The view from the lounge area down by the water at my house on Saint Aurelle. The water is drawn in soft strokes, sunlight feathering the surface, birds flying just above, their reflections gentle and fleeting. The horizon fades into the page, and in the distance, a sailboat’s mast glints in the sun, drawn with such care it feels both real and untouchable.

On the next page is a sketch of the same area from a different angle. Rolling waves kissing the beach where we walked hand in hand Saturday night. I can still hear Ellie’s laughter, feel her hand in mine, and see those gorgeous long lashes sweeping over her cheeks as she looked from the water to me. My chest feels heavy again, but I linger on that drawing, memories pushing to the forefront, bringing the glimmer of the moon reflecting in the hazel eyes that have haunted me for three days.

I’ll never forget the way she looked at me as our bodies came together or the way I couldn’t look away from her. I’ve been with plenty of women, but I can’t recall what any of them looked like in what should have been intimate moments, while every moment felt intimate and unforgettable with Ellie.

I brush my thumb over the edge of the paper, wishing I could step inside the page and go back to the moment before everything unraveled.

My phone rings, startling me. The screen lights up with a video call from all four of my siblings. Great. Just what I need right now. I set the sketchbook on my desk and swipe to answer the call in case there’s a crisis. Their smiling faces fill the screen. Clearly there’s no crisis. Why do they look so damn happy?

“There he is, the midnight runner,” Victory says. She’s in her office, her long dark hair trailing over the shoulders of her crisp white blouse.

I cock a brow. “You do realize I’m working?”

“On a Wednesday?” Clay says. “Tragic.” He’s outside, his short brown hair covered by a knit cap, his shoulders rounded forward against the cold.

“Some of us still have careers that involve actual effort,” I shoot back, even though I have nothing but respect for him. Clay was a superstar in a grueling career that I know I could never hack, and he’s done good things with his celebrity status. He gives back in big ways, running two foundations and a scholarship fund.

“And yet you sound grumpy.” Flynn rakes a hand through his longish sandy hair. “Work is usually your happy place. Maybe you need a vacation.”

“I just took one,” I say tightly.

“Yeah, we heard,” Noah cuts in, his voice full of mischief. Like Flynn, Noah takes after our mother, with fairer hair, only he wears his longer on top and shorter on the sides. “I talked to Missick yesterday. He mentioned that you brought over a beautiful woman. Said you were smiling like a man who’d finally come home.”

“Missick, man, he’s poetic,” Clay says.

I deadpan, “He’s also dramatic.”

“What’s the deal with this beautiful woman?” Victory asks, leaning closer to the phone, as if I’m about to share my secrets.

If I were going to share secrets with any of them, it would probably be her. But I’m not.

“Spill it, bro,” Noah adds.

“There’s nothing to spill. I went to the island for some R&R, and Taylor’s sister was there. We hung out.” The lie tastes acrid.

“That doesn’t sound like nothing,” Noah says. “A beautiful woman. I’m guessing she wore a bikini, the two of you lounging in the sun. We know what that tropical heat can lead to.”

“Can you cut the shit?” I bark.

“Aw, did she get under Sethy’s skin?” Clay teases.

Noah laughs. “No way. The guy’s an armadillo. Nothing gets under that armor.”

“That’s what I thought, too.” Flynn eyes me and says, “But when the right woman gets under your skin, there’s no getting her out.”

I grit my teeth and then lie through them. “I wouldn’t know.”

Victory gives me a slightly concerned, knowing look, like she can read every thought I’m trying not to have, but she won’t out me to the others. Thank fucking God.

“So, does Taylor’s sister have a name?” Clay asks.