to know, he’d told her, that night when they’d called off their feud, and this look said the same.
At the moment, though, Nora thought it would do some good. It would do some good if they would stop this, if they could read Will like she did, if they could know that this was hurting him.
“Baby faces,” Marian chimed in. “These two don’t look much older than my eighth graders.”
Nora was gripped with concern, with embarrassment, with—and this one, she was ashamed of—curiosity. But she would not look down at that picture. She kept her eyes on Will, and she knew he wasn’t looking at it, either, no matter that he had his head tipped in that direction. He’d unfocused his gaze; he was looking somewhere close to but beyond that photograph.
“Did they meet that young, Dr. Sterling?” asked Mrs. Salas, her voice infused with all the curiosity Nora would not allow herself to have.
Will cleared his throat. “First year of high school, I think.”
“Jonah!” said Benny, slapping the older man’s shoulder. “When did you meet your girl?”
Jonah set his hands on his hips again, tipping his head up to the sky in contemplation. “First year of high school seems early, but maybe . . .”
Nora breathed a small sigh of relief at the distraction, hoping they could fully move on to Jonah reigniting a flame with a fellow eighty-year-old.
But it didn’t last.
“My goodness, they look so in love,” Mrs. Salas said, and for a split second, Nora’s guard and her eyes dropped, a brief glance at the photograph that showed two young people—baby faces indeed, with their arms around each other, their gazes locked. She snapped her eyes back up, and found Will watching her.
“Do you mind if I take that?” Nora said, reaching out a hand, her patience for this suddenly run completely out. She needed to get him out of this situation, and fast. Every second, she could feel him wilting beneath the heat of it. But either Mrs. Salas hadn’t heard her, or she was too preoccupied by everyone else’s gathered assessment of the photo.
“You ought to bring them by sometime,” Marian said. “I certainly always thought Donny didn’t have any—”
“He didn’t,” interrupted Will, the first overt sign that his control was slipping. Once more, he cleared his throat, the sound weaker this time. When he spoke again, Nora could tell he was making an effort to deliver this piece of news with kindness. “What I mean is, my parents aren’t living.”
What happened next was something Nora had of course heard before in her life—a collective condolence sound, a tiny, off-key chorus of gentle awws and oohs and hmms. Nora had sung this song before, whenever she’d been in polite company and heard something heartbreakingly final but also wholly separate from herself. But it never sounded so wrenchingly hollow before this moment, no matter that she knew her neighbors truly meant it.
“It’s a beautiful photo,” said Mrs. Salas gently, holding it out to Will. “You should frame this, put it up somewhere where you can see it.”
“They’re not the kind of people you’d want a memorial to.”
In the brief, painful seconds of silence that followed, Mrs. Salas, Marian, Jonah, Benny—all of them—might’ve dropped their eyes in awkward, embarrassed surprise. But Nora didn’t know, because Nora couldn’t look away from Will. She watched as his expression transformed: fierce, pushed-to-the-limit defensiveness to blinking, Did I say that out loud? shock.
And then to shamed, desperate regret.
“I guess I’d better get to work,” he repeated, and it sounded like a repetition, a robotic sort of malfunction, like these were the only words available to him. He didn’t take the photograph; he didn’t look anyone in the eye. He simply turned and walked away, and Nora and her neighbors watched him go, no one uttering a word until the door closed behind him.
Jonah was the first to break the silence. “You sure stepped in it there, Corrine.”
“In fairness,” Marian said, “I stepped in it first, I’m pretty sure, saying he should invite them over.”
“We should apologize, or—”
“I’ll go talk to him,” Nora said, reaching out to take the picture, and it was strange, what happened next—each of her assembled neighbors asking her to convey a message, so different from all those weeks ago.
Please tell him—
If you could let him know—
I’m sorry I didn’t understand—
When she finally made her way inside, the picture held gently between her thumb and forefinger, she wondered if she’d have to knock. But she was encouraged by