For someone who comes from so much money, he hasn’t shown me an ounce of elitism, staying true to who I believe he is. But when he pulls a yearbook from the shelf above the desk and starts flipping through the pages, I second-guess giving him free rein of the place. Especially since I don’t know which grade is in his hands. I say, “When I said I have no embarrassing pictures, I was kidding. I don’t think I’ve taken a photo that’s not awkward in some way.”

“I beg to differ.” He holds up the book, and it’s flipped open to the page with me at the graduation podium.

I shrug. “One pic doesn’t make a nerd more popular. You can trust me on that.” It’s all so easy being with him that I almost forget that we’ve only been relationship official since last night.

Not finding anything worth taking to my apartment, I close the closet door and sit on the bed, but this time with my back to the wall at the head. I grab a worn paperback, The Great Gatsby, sitting on my nightstand when Harbor says, “Is this your mom?”

My gaze races to the dresser where the photo of Liz holding me as a newborn has taken up space my entire life. It’s one of the few items I have of her, especially after the house was burglarized a few years ago and her brooch was stolen. It was the only thing of value that I had, but more importantly, it was the only thing she left before leaving for good.

Seeing Harbor bending to get a closer look has my heart racing. I toss the book and jump from the bed to hurry over to him. “That’s her. That’s . . . Liz and the stolen brooch. Sounds like a book title, but it makes me sad to think about.”

“I bet. I’m sorry it was stolen.”

“Me too. It’s one of the only things I had of her. That and the photo.”

“Liz is your mom?” he asks, looking back at me, but he returns his narrowed gaze to the photograph and leans in even closer.

“The lady who gave birth to me,” I reply curtly. “I call her Liz because calling her Mom feels like a stab to my heart. And the truth is that I don’t have a mom.”

Taken back by my tone, he steps away from the dresser. “Did I do something wrong? You seem upset with me.”

Guilt washes through me for overreacting. Harbor doesn’t know the story. He just asked a question. “No. I’m sorry. I just . . .” I move closer to the picture frame and stare at the faded photo. “My heart shouldn’t ache from the pain she caused nineteen years ago, but it does, and I hate it. I hate how weak, how empty she makes me feel, even after all this time.”

His hands cover my shoulders, and I feel his warmth through my sweatshirt. He rubs gently and then kisses the top of my head. “The pain sticks around long after years have passed. Even when you think you’re healing, something always lurks to make you feel it all again.” He wraps his arms around me, his front to my back, and I feel safe in the strength of this man—not just physically, but emotionally. He understands.