My phone had disappeared between Claire’s couch cushion and the armrest while she was in the bedroom changing into the green dress I’d bought her.
I muttered something I definitely wouldn’t repeat around my mother and pushed my hand into the gap.
My fingers brushed against two quarters, a pen cap, something that felt disturbingly like a fossilized potato chip, and finally my phone.
But when I pulled my hand free, a photograph came out with it.
It dropped facedown onto the rug.
I picked it up automatically.
Then I stopped.
The photograph was old enough that the colors had started fading along the edges. A group of children sat on what appeared to be a library floor, each holding a book.
Near one end of the row sat a skinny boy with uneven brown hair and a missing front tooth.
Me.
Eight years old, maybe nine.
I knew immediately because I remembered that horrible striped shirt. My mother had insisted it made me look “handsome.”
I had never given Claire a childhood photograph of me.
Beside me stood a girl about the same age wearing purple glasses.
I turned the picture over.
Written in faded blue ink were the words:
“Nora + Ethan, Summer Reading Club.”
Below that, written much more recently in black ink, were five words.
“Found Ethan today. Tell him.”
Underneath was a date.
I checked it twice.
It was the date Claire and I had matched on Tinder.
A chill crawled across my arms even though Claire’s apartment was warm.
“Ethan?”
Her voice came from the bedroom.
I kept staring at the handwriting.
A second later, Claire stepped into the living room.
The dress fit her exactly the way I’d hoped it would.
Emerald green, just as I’d imagined when I returned to the boutique without her. Her dark hair was loosely pinned behind one ear, and she was still fastening the earring on the other side.
For a moment, she smiled.
Then her eyes landed on the photograph.
Her fingers remained frozen against the earring.
She never finished fastening it.
“Where did you get that?”
I nearly laughed.
“Your couch.”
Claire didn’t respond.
I lifted the photograph.
“Who is Nora?”
Her hand slowly dropped.
“Ethan…”
“No.” I pointed at the date. “Why did you write this the day we met?”
She looked toward the couch as if another explanation might somehow be waiting there.
