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The name does something in the room. Closes the space a little.

Paul nods. “And, I guess, we’re what’s left of him.”

I squeeze my leg, fingers digging in. Not enough to notice, at least I hope.

“I guess you’re right.”

He seems almost relieved by that. It makes me want to switch subjects.

“So,” I say, nodding toward the table. “Are those part of the house talk or the not-only-house talk?”

“The second.”

“Thought so.”

Paul’s hand moves over the frames but doesn’t pick one up. He looks like a man trying to pet a nervous dog.

For the first time since I walked in, I realize he may actually be more scared of whatever is on that coffee table than he is of me.

I shift in the chair. “Paul?”

His eyes lift. Then he nods, small and almost grateful.

“Okay,” he says.

But his hand still hovers over the photos. For one wild second, I think he might apologize. For what, I don’t know. Maybe all of it. Instead, he picks up the nearest frame.

“These are…” He stops. Clears his throat. “I thought you might want to see some pictures of your dad.”

My dad.

I keep my face still. I reach for the frame because not reaching would say too much.

My fingers brush his on the handoff. Warm. Dry. Gone quickly.

The man in the photo is younger than I expected.

Not young-young. Maybe late thirties, early forties. Dark hair thick and styled in carefully chaotic waves. White shirt open at the collar. One arm thrown around Paul, who looks almost unrecognizable beside him. Face fuller, eyes brighter, smile wider than anything I have seen from him in person.

“Had good hair.”

Paul exhales. It might be a laugh. It might be relief. “Yes.”

“Did he keep it?”

Paul nods. “Yeah. He did.”

“Good.”

I keep looking at the photo. I don’t see myself in it. No obvious nose. No exact smile. No sudden, stupid moment where genetics shows itself.

“Not much of a resemblance,” I say. “Maybe the jaw. A drag queen told me that at your party.”

“Georgia,” Paul says.

“She put her hand on my face.”

“She does that to all the cute boys.”