I watched as she turned the page and stilled.
“What’s the matter?”Iasked asIpeeked over her shoulder.
"Where did you say this album was from?” she asked in a trembling whisper.
“My mom made it years ago.Why?”
Her fingers smoothed over an old photo that was bleached and warped with age. “Becausethat’s me.”
“What?”Ilaughed. “That’simpossible.That’s?—”
“I remember that swimsuit.Iwas obsessed with it because it was covered in strawberries.”
I shook my head. “Itwas probably just a popular swimsuit back then.IthinkIhad the same swim trunks as every other boy in my class.”
“Jack,I’mserious,” she said. “Lookat my knee.Mymom andIstayed atAuntJuniper’shouse for a week one summer.Therewas an old bikeItried to ride, andIended up falling off and skinning my knee.”Sheshifted on the bed and bent her leg, showing me the lingering scar.Itmatched the angry red patch that had started to scab on the little girl in the photo.
I studied the picture again, letting nostalgia take me back in time.Iremembered that summer, too.LucasandIhad been playing on the beach when we met a little girl who was a little older than him and a little younger than me.Shewas on vacation and wanted someone to play with since she didn’t have any brothers or sisters.
For seven days, we were inseparable.Itwas magic—the idyllic moments of childhood where there were no cares.Justthe infinite expanse of possibilities and carefree joy.
Aurora peeled back the plastic protector and slid the photo out from the page.Sheturned it over and read the inscription my mom had left on the back.
Jack, 9.Lucas, 5.JuniperWhitlock’sgreat-niece,Aurora, 6.
“Told you,” she whispered. “Ijust wishIremembered more of it.Iget these bits and pieces like lightning flashes.Iremember being here and hurting my knee.Iremember it being the best summer ever.Ididn’t make friends easily.Stilldon’t.SoIwas really excited when two kids let me play with them.”
I could hardly believe it either.Thereshe was, my angel with a sunlit smile, covered in sand like it was pixie dust.
My brother was tucked under my arm with an ear-to-ear grin.Thethree of us looked like we had known each other for a hundred lifetimes.Butthat was the simplicity of childhood.Itwas pure, unmarred by the stress and reality of the world.
Aurora’s six-year-old eyes stared up at me likeI'dhung the moon and stars.
That was the magic of the ocean, sand, and sun.Thecoastal world was limitless.Aweek might as well have been seven centuries.
There was something about seeing the two of us together as kids that made a funny feeling bubble up in my chest.Howmany happenstances had to happen before we admitted that chance was actually fate?
“I’m a little speechless,”Iadmitted.
Aurora just kept staring at the picture. “Metoo.Iguess this is what they mean when they say a picture is worth a thousand words.AndI’mreally good with words.”
“I want you to admit something,”Isaid asIkissed the crook of her neck.
“What’s that?”
“I want you to admit that this . . . us . . . we were meant to be.”
I expected her to outright deny it.Afterall,Aurorawas nothing if not stubborn.Butto my surprise, she just nodded. “I’mstarting to think so.”
27
AURORA
READY OR NOT, HERE YOU COME
“And that’s time.Handsup, ladies,”Willowsaid through the computer screen.
I had been writing withWhitneyandWillowfor the better part of the day.Wewould work in silence for twenty minutes, then shit-talk for five, and go again.Itwas entertainingly effective.
