“I’m pro bono.”
I giggle.
“Can I ask you something?”
He pulls back, his pupils dilated, lips swollen. Hair dishevelled, glasses still on. This man will be the death of me, figuratively and literally.
“Always?”
“When I was at your place, I found something.”
“A spare copy of the hard drive.”
I roll my eyes. “Ha, ha.” I unravel myself from him, and he pouts his disappointment. Walking to the duffel bag with his belongings, I open it and grab the book, then place it on the counter table that is now between us.
“What’s this?” I ask, nodding to the photo book.
“A book.”
“Yes, but why do you have it?”
He tilts his head, not replying, taking in my expression. He reaches up and runs his thumb over his lips, and my eyes drop to the movement.
“Do you really not want to remember anything from our childhood?” he asks, leaning forward and opening the book. “There were some good times, Luce. I choose to focus on those. This book is my reminder of that.”
He opens it randomly to a page, his face lighting up with a grin as he looks at a picture and turns the book round. I groan.
“You remember that day, right?” He grins at me.
I rub my hands down my face to hide my embarrassment that swells through me. “It was your fault.”
The picture is of the four of us standing in front of the teacups at a theme park.
I had just been very, very sick in the bin that sits out of shot. James, Maria and Owen are all smiling at the camera, big grins on their face. Me? I look positively green.
“You keep blaming me, Cookie. But it was James who turned that wheel so much. I think we all came off a little peaky.”
“Peaky. I projectile vomited!”
He leans back and laughs and turns the page to another photo.
“And this one, tell me what you remember,” he prompts, spinning the book back around.
I look at the picture. It’s of James in the middle, Owen on one side, and me on the other. James has his hands on both our shoulders, we are standing in front of the very pond that I almost drowned in.
Maria behind the camera.
The colours of the trees are oranges, reds and browns. The sun lower in the sky and reflecting off the water.
It’s a beautiful picture, capturing a lovely moment. My chest’s warm, and I glance up to look at Owen.
“You were eight, and I was six.”
“And…”
“We were feeding the ducks, because we had been looking after an injured one. It had broken its wing.”
He nods.
