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He chokes on a stifled laugh.
It feels like a victory.
“I bet you don’t even have silk sheets,” I add.
“Sorry to disappoint you. Too slippery.”
“I’ve always thought so too. I like thick, soft cotton.”
He nods. “Exactly right.”
I feel like beaming but have no idea why. I hide the expression behind my mug.
After a moment of emotional pleasure, I start feeling awkward about it. I used to sometimes feel this way on dates that were going really well. It’s been a long time since I experienced it, and I never felt that way about Arthur.
It doesn’t seem... appropriate. He’s a friend of my father’s and nothing else to me. Maybe the head injury messed up my natural responses.
To hide my discomfort, I say the first thing that pops into my head (another thing I rarely do). “You were a cute little boy.”
Arthur blinks.
Well, shit. That random comment did absolutely nothing to ease the awkwardness.
“Sorry. I was looking around in here this afternoon and found an old photo album. There were pictures of you in it.”
“I’m sure you had better things to do than look at old pictures of me.” His tone is very dry, but he doesn’t sound annoyed. Maybe slightly self-conscious.
“Yeah, it wasn’t like I was searching for them. But I thought they were cute.” I get up and wander over to the shelf where I found the album. I carry it back over to where we’ve been sitting and leaf through the pages until I find the photos. I can’t help but smile as I look down again at the ultra-serious expression on the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy in every single pose.
He makes a huffing sound as he leans over to look too.
“Didn’t you ever smile?” I ask, gently stroking the small face with my fingertip. Something inside me wants to ease the expression into a wide smile.
“Sure. But these were the formal photos for posterity. I hated them. I had to sit for hours and not mess up my hair and clothes.”
“Oh, I guess that makes sense. So you didn’t always look like this?” The little boy in the photograph appears to be carrying the weight of the world at no more than ten years old.
When Arthur doesn’t answer, I dart a quick look over at him. His eyes are focused slightly past my face, like he’s trapped in a thought he doesn’t know what to do with.
“Arthur?” My voice breaks. “Were you always this unhappy?” I don’t know why it matters so much to me, but it does.
He gives his head a quick shake. “Of course not.”
“Do you have any pictures of when you were happy?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Finally says, “I... don’t think so. My mom had some, I’m sure, but they would have disappeared along with all the rest of her stuff after she died.” He says the words lightly, as if they don’t mean much.
I gulp. “When did your mom die?”
“I was twelve.”
“Were you happy when it was just you and her?”
This question appears to surprise him. He thinks about it for a minute before responding. “Yes. My dad would travel sometimes for business. Those were the best days. She would relax. We would get food out—like fast food or ice cream or whatever—and watch movies.” He almost smiles. “I was happy then.”
I reach out to touch his arm very lightly. “I’m glad you had at least that.”
We sit in silence, not looking at each other, until the emotional tension has eased. I flip through some of the earlier pages of the album, and we chat about some of his ancestors.
