I’m sorry, hon. I love you. Dinner tonight?

Just thinking of how I get to have my freedom and Mark and Trisha makes me feel rebellious and silly. There’s a definite bounce in my step after the event, and when I see Becky approaching I suspect she’s going to ask what kind of drugs I’m on.

Instead, Becky does the impossible: She hands me a small, sturdy box with a familiar sticker on its side, and my blood freezes. It’s a calligraphy V in the middle of an open book.

Val’s.

My heart is pumping too fast.

“Another package for you, Amelia. You really should give them your home address. We’re not a post office, you know.”

“Sure,” I say. My mouth is on autopilot as my brain tries to summon whales to carry away the memories of Nolan Endsley that are leaking into my bloodstream, making me feel hopelessly warm. The whales don’t come, so for a moment I sit and let them wash over me: Nolan laughing and choking on wine as Alex talks of swords and phones. Nolan insisting I draw stick figures like it’s the most important thing in the world. Nolan kissing me in the Orman room. Nolan reading to me. Nolan, exhausted but triumphant, promising me that if he can conquer his fear, I can conquer mine.

“Amelia? Are you okay?”

I don’t bother trying to sound normal as I shoulder my camera bag, holding the box between my hands like it’s a life raft and these memories are a raging ocean.

“Sure, Becky. Thanks.”

I don’t even make it a foot out the bookstore door before I walk between buildings to a small square of brown grass with a wilting tree that the bookstore employees use as a break room. Dirt gets under my fingernails as I hastily sweep away cigarette butts and bottle caps and sit with my back against the trunk.

The box tape is sturdy, but it’s no match for my curiosity. It takes me only a couple of seconds to rip the flaps open, but I sit for a full minute staring at the contents.

On top of crumpled packing paper is an envelope beside a plain black photo album with a plastic frame on the front. The photo in the frame is grainy. Alex must have taken it on his phone before we boarded the doomed dinner voyage.

It’s already my new favorite picture.

Nolan’s arm is wrapped around me and I can barely make out the pieces of my long hair stuck in his. We’re not kissing, not even about to, but the trash condition of the photo can’t hide the look of pure awe on our faces as we stare at each other.