“How did you get these?” I ask five minutes later.

I turn to look at Claire, only to see, not the smirk I was expecting, but instead a kind, soft look. One that resonates compassion, like she understands the feeling of weightlessness and joy that I’m experiencing.

“I told you. I don’t give normal gifts.” She taps the page with two fingers. “For the past ten months, I’ve been going back in time. Taking photos and chronicling his life for you. The photos tell their own story, but would you like me to tell you what I saw?”

“Please,” I whisper without hesitating.

Claire takes a longer sip this time and crosses her legs at the ankles, getting comfortable.

“Let’s see. After you left him, he continued to play his music but decided that his real passion was journalism. He went to Stanford to study it. Wrote some pretty important pieces over the next twenty years about gay rights, disability rights, and intersectionality.” She turns to the back of the book, where more than a dozen newspaper articles, each with the byline Michael Gray highlighted.

“He got married when he was forty-seven, to a man named Patrick, a car salesman, if you would believe it.”

I let out a chuckle. “I can believe it.” That sounds like him.

I study the pictures, running my fingers over them. The photos fill in the blanks. Michael looks happy in all of these photos. Pictures of his husband opening up his first independent dealership. His daughter’s high school graduation. When he was awarded a Pulitzer. Important moments in any person’s life.

But there’s a question that the photos don’t answer. I do a quick mental calculation. How old would he be now? I guess it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m going to see him again, and if he’s dead, how will that make me feel? It took me almost four months to get over him. Four months where Blake was the most patient boyfriend I could ask for. Would knowing whether he’s dead or alive throw me back in a way I’m not ready for?

It doesn’t matter. I need to know.

“Is he alive?” I force the words out before I can retract them.

Claire pauses, studying the ceiling, as if the answer is up there.

“I need to know.”

Eventually, she nods.

“Does that mean that he’s alive or that you’re nodding in agreement?”

“He’s alive,” she says. “He’s still living a happy and full life. He lives in England with his husband.”

I breathe out a shaky sigh of relief and feel tears that I didn’t know were pooling around my eyes drop like hot wax down my face. My body shakes in an uncontrollable way. It’s just…entropy. So much energy. So much emotion coming out.