“Why did she think she should get it?”
“What?” I stared at him. “It was her necklace.”
“How do you know?”
“What do youmeanhow do I know? Why else would she ask for it back?”
“Why wouldn’t he give it to her if it was hers?”
“That’smyquestion.”
“And you haven’t answered it. He probably had a good reason.”
“Or maybe he was just being a jerk.”
We glared at each other.
He finally sighed. “This whole thing is ridiculous. Are yousurethey weren’t basically siblings?”
“God, Noah. Read the freaking letters.” I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my photos of the letters until I found the right one. I cleared my throat.
“‘Sometimes I feel as though I’m grasping for something bigger than myself. Some people find it in religion and others in war, but for me it is you, it is this all-encompassing feeling you stir in me. Youare bright and the world blurred, sharp and the world soft.’”
I looked back up to see Noah looking at me with wide, surprised eyes. “‘For me it is you,’” I repeated. “Not exactly sibling feels.”
He swallowed. “No.”
We sat there in silence.
“Actually,maybe—”
I sat up, glaring at him. “‘I wish I could see you surrounded by roses, naked and drenched in moonlight.’”
He stared at me. Then his gaze dipped to my lips.
Oh. I probably should have given the context. Red flags scored my cheeks. “It’s from one of the letters.”
“Mm.” His gaze stayed on my mouth.
“I didn’t—” My tongue darted out to lick my lips without permission, and when I realized I’d done so, I sat as straight as possible. It was very hard to breathe. “I didn’t mean—I don’t—”
“Don’t worry, Schoenberg, I get it.” He looked away, then back, wryly amused. “I can’t decide if I’m turned on or grossed out.”
I started giggling, relieved at the break in the tension. “Right?” I scrolled down to another. “They’re ourgrandparents.It’sterrible!”
“All right.” He braced himself like a man going to war. “Send me the letters.”
“So brave of you.” I texted him a link to the album.
Stretching out on my stomach, I flipped through earlier scrapbooks as Noah looked through the letters. A little girl looked back at me, around four or five, with short hair, no smile, and a heavy coat. I wouldn’t have recognized her as O’ma if I hadn’t slowly gone back in time, seeing her at fourteen, then ten, then eight. But I recognized her now, the shape of her eyes, the curve of her chin. If I’d learned nothing else, I’d learned what she’d looked like.
Every so often Noah would read a portion of the letters aloud.“‘Every time I touch a rose I’m reminded of your skin, soft as the flower, and I stroke the crimson petals between my fingers’—” He broke off, making a strangled noise in his throat. His cheeks turned red, his eyes bright. “Mygrandfatherwrote this.”
“Don’t look atme!” I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, hotly aware of Noah’s gaze. “They were to my grandmother! Why are you reading them out loud?”
“I don’t know!”
We lay there in silence a minute.
