And stand there.
With a piece of El in my hands.
Given to me by the woman I first loved.
Who I betrayed on orders of my father.
My father, who killed my mother.
Tears flood down my cheeks.
I wipe them away with my elbow, not letting go of the phone on my chest, and my gaze falls onto the drawer by the door.
The Porsche’s keys lie on it.
I look at them.
And I know what to do.
I grab them.
Run downstairs.
Open the car I haven’t used since the day El and I were in the Hamptons.
I sit down in the driver’s seat.
Her smell trails into my nose.
I cry.
And cry.
Unable to stop.
I look at the phone again.
I smile and cry at the same time.
The only real photo that exists of me.
Taken in a moment where I was myself.
Because that’s what she made me feel.
Like myself.
She made me feel myself.
She helped me figure out who I am.
Like steered by an external force, I slide up the screen with shaking hands. Enter El’s pin.
I want to see her.
I need to see her.
I open the Photos app.
