There they were. Seventeen and sixteen. Standing by the punch table at the gym. Out on the dance floor, blurry from motion. Charlotte laughing at something. Tyler looking stunned in the way of someone who has momentarily forgotten to guard against joy.
Charlotte’s hand went to her mouth.
“What — what is this?”
“Lottie,” he said. He had not
used that name in twenty years. It came out as naturally as breathing.
Her head turned toward him so fast she swayed.
“T-Tyler?”
She sat down on the couch with the particular lowering of someone whose legs have made a unilateral decision. He crossed the room and crouched in front of her, hands light on her shoulders.
“Hey,” he said. “It’s okay.”
What She Told Him About the Twenty Years Between Prom and the Delivery Jacket
When the crying settled, they stayed where they were for a few minutes — him in the chair he had pulled close, her on the couch with a glass of water, both of them in the quiet that follows the kind of recognition that takes something out of you.
