“I swear I didn’t know it was you,” she kept saying.
“I know you didn’t. I knew immediately. But I’ve had twenty years to
track who you became, and you had no reason to track me.”
She wiped her face carefully. “Tell me how you — what happened to you? You look like someone from a different life.”
“Different life is accurate.” He told her the short version: college abroad, the years of rebuilding himself deliberately and imperfectly, the tech company that had grown well past his original projections, the house.
She listened and then looked at her own hands.
“And you?” he said.
She was quiet for a moment.
“I tried,” she said. “For a while it worked. I got some work in New York. Small shoots, some catalog stuff, some runway for smaller brands. Mom and Marcus were there, and I was covering a lot of it.”
