The idea lodged itself somewhere in the back of my mind and refused to leave, because photographs aren’t accidental, especially not an entire album. You certainly don’t keep dozens, and you definitely don’t keep them for two decades.
Several times, I considered asking Miles more questions. Several times, I stopped myself. What exactly was I hoping to accomplish?
Jack and I were different people now.
We had lived entire lives since then. The past was the past. At least that was what I kept telling myself.
The problem was that the photograph kept arguing back.
Three days later, Miles called.
“Can I ask you something?”
The hesitation in his voice immediately made me nervous. “Sure.”
“I showed my dad the picture.”
I sat up straighter. “Oh.”
There was a brief pause. Then, “He recognized it immediately.”
Of course he did.
“He asked where I found it.”
I didn’t say anything.
Miles continued. “And when I told him…” Another pause. “He went completely quiet.”
My pulse quickened. “What happened?”
“He asked if the woman in the picture was Audrey.”
I closed my eyes. For 20 years, I hadn’t heard Jack say my name. And somehow hearing that he still remembered it felt stranger than I expected.
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth.”
I waited. Then Miles said, “He wants to talk to you.”
The words hung between us. Heavy, unexpected, dangerous.
I laughed softly. Not because anything was funny. Because I suddenly felt 24 years old again.
“No.”
“Audrey…”
“No.”
“I think you should.”
“I don’t.”
“He looked like someone punched him.”
I didn’t know what to do with that. So I changed the subject and ended the call a few minutes later.
Unfortunately, ending the conversation didn’t end the problem, because now I knew something. Jack had seen the photograph, and he knew I existed.
Again.
