“Yes.” He laughs. “Just friends. No more benefits. We agreed we never should have crossed that line.”
“And you’re okay with that?” I press.
“I wouldn’t want it any other way. There was never that…spark. For either of us.”
I consider his story for several long moments, unsure how to feel about his relationship with the woman I haven’t been able to stop thinking about. In a way, it provides me with a certain level of comfort that there were never any romantic feelings between them. But she’s still my son’s friend.
She’s still off limits.
“Did you grow up in the D.C. area?” Joshua asks, changing the subject.
“Connecticut, actually.”
“I have to ask. Red Sox or Yankees?”
“Red Sox. I was a fan when they kept choking in the playoffs.”
“That must have been painful.”
“It sure was,” I said with a laugh.
He continues to ask questions about anything that pops into his head as we finish our meal, and I’m more than happy to talk about something other than Claire.
After we’re done and I’ve cleaned the kitchen, I join Joshua on the couch in the living room.
“Do you mind if I look through some of these?” I pick up one of the baby books.
“It’s why I brought them.”
I open the book to the first page. It’s covered in photos from the hospital, his tiny fingers wrapped around Hannah’s thumb as she holds him close.
“She loved these books,” Joshua says from beside me as I flip through the pages, each one documenting different milestones. “Told me she was worried she’d forget something if she didn’t write it all down.”
Page after page, I watch my son’s life unfold in faded snapshots and handwritten notes. His first steps. His favorite toys. Finger-painted birthday cards. It’s a strange thing, seeing your own child grow up in fast-forward, knowing you weren’t part of it. But it doesn’t make it less meaningful.
“She really loved you,” I murmur as I admire a photo of Joshua and his mother when he was around six. They were on a boat, their skin sun-kissed, their smiles wide.
“I was lucky.”
I turn another page, wanting to know everything I can about Joshua’s childhood, and my breath catches.
There’s a photo of two kids in puffy jackets, standing in front of a snowman. One of them is unmistakably Joshua, all crooked grin and missing teeth. The other is Claire.
Her hair’s pulled into two braids, and she’s beaming at the camera like she owns the world. Her arm is slung around Joshua’s shoulders, and even at that age, the connection between them is obvious.
It’s one thing to listen to him talk about their lifelong friendship.
It’s another to see it for myself.
And I’m the asshole who keeps fantasizing about my son’s best friend.
I clear my throat and sit back, suddenly needing more space. “Thanks for bringing these. For letting me see all of this. And not hating me for not being there.”
“I told you last night.” Joshua closes the book and sets it on the table. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters. And I’m really glad youarehere, Declan. It means a lot.”
“I remember my first Christmas after I lost my mother. It was…awful. I didn’t want you to feel alone.”
“Is that how you felt?”
