My lips are open in laughter, eyes squinted over my rounded cheeks, but Nolan’s warmth is contained in his eyes. He’s looking at me, to quote Alex, like I’m the sun and I’m shining only for him.

I reluctantly stop staring at Nolan’s face to open the album and suddenly I am back at the bazaar: Mr. Larson sitting in a folding lawn chair, an ankle resting on his knee, as he knits. Valerie smiling after Alex as he bustles by on some mission. A younger teenage boy sneezing into his funnel cake, powdered sugar rushing toward his face. He’s lit just right by the twinkling tree lights.

I linger on the photo of Alex and Nolan’s bromance, and the one of Nolan signing little Julie’s book while her sister blushes in the background. Even with the rush of confused feelings boiling in my stomach, I’m stunned by the quality of my own work, especially since I spent more time at Nolan’s signing table than taking photos.

These are actually good.

I flip through the entire album once more before turning to the letter. The envelope feels plump in my hands as I work my finger beneath the flap and tear it open. I tell myself to go slow, but years of reading have made me a hare, not a tortoise, and my eyes are gulping words whole before I can stop them: