Page 73 of The Story Between Us

“Nate.” Her voice was softer now. “Did you go?”

He turned his chair to face her. She was holding the photograph in both hands, looking at it like it was evidence of something. Which, he supposed, it was.

“No.” The word came out flat. Dead. “My sister was sick. My dad was working. Nobody could take me. I was sixteen—couldn’t go alone.”

He remembered that summer. The acceptance letter on the kitchen table. The excitement that curdled into understanding when he saw his mother’s face. We just can’t right now, honey. Maybe next year. There was no next year. There was only Emma’s hospital room and the stories he wrote to make her smile.

“So you’ve always wanted to be a writer,” Livvie said.

“No.” He shook his head. “It was just a school assignment⁠—”

“That got you to the state finals.” She held up the photograph like it was proof. “That got you invited to a prestigious camp. You’ve wanted this your whole life. You’ve just never let yourself have it.”

The words landed somewhere deep. Somewhere he’d been protecting for thirteen years.

He didn’t answer.

She set the photograph down on the shelf—upright, facing out—and walked to the kitchen.

He waited until he heard the coffee maker start.

Then walked over and picked up the photograph.

It had been face down for years. Buried under other frames, other memories. The boy in the picture was smiling, full of a hope that had been snuffed out before it ever had a chance to become anything.

You’ve wanted this your whole life. You’ve just never let yourself have it.

He returned the photograph to the shelf. The boy stared back.

The coffee maker beeped in the kitchen. He heard the coffee pouring, the clink of mugs. Outside, the fog had started to thin—pale sunshine breaking through, the lake slowly reappearing, the maples along the shore revealing additional bursts of red and gold overnight. A pair of mallards drifted past the dock.

He sat back down at his desk. Put his fingers on the keys.

And the words came.

Not easily—sort of forced out of him—but they came. Sentences forming. The story moving forward. He wrote through the sound of Livvie in the kitchen, through the fog burning off, through the smell of fresh coffee and cedar smoke and autumn through the cracked window.

At some point, he started humming. He didn’t notice until Livvie walked in and set a fresh cup beside him. Steam curled up, carrying the dark-roast smell.

“Thanks.” He didn’t look up—middle of a sentence. “That’s great.”

“Would you like a candle?”

He glanced at her. She was holding a match, looking at him with that expression—hopeful but braced for rejection.

He remembered the first time she’d tried this. He’d been a jerk about it. Told her he didn’t need ambiance.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Her whole face lit up.

She struck the match. Sulfur, then flame. She lit the candle on his desk—cedar and clove, autumn in a jar—and adjusted the blanket on the back of his chair, moved his empty water glass to the kitchen.

She started to leave.

“Hey—what would you do about this?”

She turned back. Came to look at the screen. Close enough that he caught the floral scent of her shampoo. Close enough that he could see the paint still on her cheekbone.