And now Gerald had one.
“Oh my God.” I said it louder than I meant to.
Gerald turned. The second his eyes met mine, his expression changed. He knew exactly what I’d seen.
“Claire?”
“I need to leave.”
“What happened?”
“I forgot something.”
“You just got here.”
“I told someone I’d call.”
He frowned. “You didn’t have a sitter tonight.”
I stared at him, realizing how badly I was lying. “I have to go.”
I collected Lily and drove home.
THE BOX OF PHOTOGRAPHS
After Lily fell asleep, I pulled a plastic storage container from the closet. I’d avoided opening it for almost a year.
Inside were photographs from Nathaniel’s life before me. College. Road trips. Cheap diners. Bad haircuts.
Then I found Lake Thornwood. Nathaniel standing outside a tattoo shop, nineteen years old and grinning, a square of gauze taped behind his ear.
I flipped to another photo. Nathaniel and Gerald at a diner. Gerald laughing, head turned, ear completely visible.
No tattoo. Nothing.
I remembered Nathaniel’s teasing. Gerald had chickened out.
Then another thought hit me. Gerald had started wearing his hair slightly longer around six months earlier.
Six months.
I said it out loud.
The next morning, I went to his house.
“SHOW ME YOUR EAR”
Gerald opened the door in sweatpants and an old T-shirt. The dark circles under his eyes told me he hadn’t slept either.
“I thought you might come.”
I stepped inside. Nathaniel’s old travel mug sat beside the coffee machine. Suddenly I hated seeing it there.
“Turn around.”
Gerald sighed. “Claire.”
“Please.”
He turned his head. In the morning light, the compass was even clearer. Fresh enough that I could still see faint redness.
“When?”
He knew exactly what I meant.
“Six months ago.”
“Why?”
His jaw tightened. “I should’ve told you.”
“Yes.”
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Gerald looked down. “Because I felt ashamed.”
“Of what?”
He sat at the kitchen table. I stayed standing.
“Nathaniel was your best friend.”
“I know.”
“You’re allowed to miss him.”
“That’s what I told myself.”
Something in his answer made me sit. “What does that mean?”
Gerald pressed both palms against the table. “When we were nineteen, Nathaniel wanted us to get matching tattoos.”
“You refused.”
“I was scared of needles.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled. “He never let you forget it.”
“No.” He looked toward the window. “After he died, I kept thinking about it.”
“The stupid tattoo?”
“The promise behind it.” His voice cracked. “He asked me to do something with him, and I said no.”
“So you did it now.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved him.” He swallowed. “And after he died, I wanted to finally give him the yes I should have given while he was alive.”
That answer hurt. But it made sense.
