“Let’s do it,” Grant says, already removing the drawers and stacking them aside.
Warning bells ring in my psyche. Stubbornly, I disregard them.
It’ll be fine.
It won’t be fine, though. And our hero knows why. Could it be he’s allowing them to clear out the desk so he can free himself of the secret that’s been tormenting him? Get your popcorn, folks. I’ve got mine.
Removing the contents from the lower half of the desk does the trick. With only minimal swearing, we get the desk inside and lower it gingerly.
When we get around to changing the flooring, we’ll hire someone to lift it or work around it. I can’t recall the type of wood he used, but I suspect it was a concrete variety.
Lila comes in with one of the drawers. Kri trails behind her with another.
Behaving in classic twin style, Perry and I glide in unison to take them from the ladies. Not sure how long it’ll take to get used to doing shit like that. Creepy.
Those earlier warning bells turn into blasting sirens when we kneel simultaneously and reinsert the drawers into the slots.
During the move, the contents of his drawer shifted, a folder blocking it from fitting. In my peripheral, I catch my twin removing the folder on top so he can slide the drawer in.
Gasping, I reach to stop him. It’s too late.
Some of the photos have spilled out of the drawer.
Shit, shit, shit.
“What’s this?” he asks innocently.
I watch in a semi-catatonic state of horror as he opens the folder to see the evidence I’ve tried to hide from even myself. Pictures, news articles, and other mementos I’ve collected over the years for those times I felt hollow and wanted to be close to them.
Sometimes knowing the file existed was enough to plaster the fractures of my soul.
Perry flips through a few of them, head quirked in pleasant curiosity.
Gradually, the lines of his face succumb to the heavy gravity of realization.
“Reed?” He whispers, looking up from the newspaper article about the fire. “Who is this about? And why is his last name Sawyer?”
He knows.
Three times I open my mouth to explain. And three times the words fail to come.
“Is this our father?”
Through a rapidly closing throat, I force out, “No.”
“Cousin? Uncle?”
Shaking my head no, I take the article out of his hand, placing it on the floor. Scanning the pile, I find the photo that broke me the most.
I’m tempted to crumple it into a ball so he doesn’t see it.
I don’t.
This is our truth. And he deserves to know.
His adam’s apple bobs as I pass the picture to him.
“This is you, right?” he prompts, still clinging to foolish hope.
