Chương 11
The album went on his bookshelf.
Daniel’s photograph stayed in his wallet.
One afternoon Ethan saw it while Daniel paid for gas.
The edges had become more worn.
“You still carry that?”
Daniel looked down.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
Daniel shrugged.
“Habit.”
Ethan liked the answer.
Not destiny.
Not because the photo represented some sacred bond.
Habit.
Human and ordinary.
The first anniversary of Claire’s death came two weeks after the move.
Ethan did not want a memorial.
Daniel did not suggest one.
They drove to a grocery store.
Ethan bought yellow flowers because Claire liked them.
Then he changed his mind and bought onions too.
Daniel stared at the bag.
“That’s disgusting.”
“She’d appreciate it.”
“She’d laugh at you.”
“Same thing.”
They took the flowers to a small lake outside the city.
There was no grave nearby.
Claire had been cremated.
Her ashes remained in storage with some of her possessions while legal matters were settled.
So they sat beside the water.
Daniel skipped stones badly.
Ethan did it better.
After a while, Ethan said, “Do you wish she stayed?”
Daniel looked across the lake.
“Yes.”
“Even if you would’ve gotten divorced?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Daniel picked up another stone.
“Because then you would’ve had both of us.”
Ethan looked at him.
Daniel threw the stone.
It sank immediately.
Ethan said, “Terrible.”
“I’m distracted.”
“You’re terrible.”
Daniel smiled.
They stayed until mosquitoes drove them back to the car.
Life settled.
Not neatly.
Ethan had nightmares.
Daniel sometimes checked on him too often.
Ethan snapped.
Daniel withdrew too far.
They corrected.
Failed.
Corrected again.
At fourteen, Ethan stopped telling Daniel where he was going after school because he wanted privacy.
Daniel panicked when Ethan did not answer his phone for forty minutes.
They had their worst fight since the reunion.
“You don’t trust me.”
“This isn’t about trust.”
“It’s always about control with you.”
Daniel flinched.
Ethan saw it.
Used it anyway.
“You’re exactly who Mom thought you were.”
Daniel’s face went still.
Ethan regretted it instantly.
Daniel walked into the kitchen.
Ethan followed.
“Say something.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“Stop doing that.”
Daniel turned.
“What do you want me to say?”
“That you’re mad.”
“I’m furious.”
“Good.”
“I spent nine years not knowing whether you were alive.”
Ethan froze.
Daniel continued.
“That is not your burden. I know that. But when you disappear for forty minutes and don’t answer, my body doesn’t know it’s fourteen-year-old you ignoring his father because he’s hanging out with friends. My body thinks I’m thirty-four again and your crib is empty.”
The honesty stunned Ethan.
Daniel rubbed both hands over his face.
“I need to work on that. You need to answer your damn phone.”
“You can’t swear at me.”
“I absolutely can.”
“You never do.”
“I’m branching out.”
Ethan almost laughed.
He did not.
They compromised.
Ethan had privacy.
Daniel had a text.
Not constant location sharing.
Not tracking.
A text.
Alive. Home by six.
It worked most of the time.
Sometimes Ethan forgot.
Sometimes Daniel overreacted.
They remained human.
At fifteen, Ethan asked to read all the birthday cards.
Daniel brought the box.
They sat in the living room.
Ethan read nine years of messages.
Some awkward.
Some funny.
Some painful.
At age ten:
I heard a kid in the grocery store ask his dad why birds don’t get electrocuted on power lines. I almost turned around because for half a second I thought it was you.
At age eleven:
You’d probably hate that I still think of you as three.
I’m trying not to.
At age twelve, written only months before Ethan appeared at the hotel:
Happy birthday.
I don’t know where you are.
I hope whoever you’ve become has people around him who notice when he’s quiet.
Ethan stopped.
Daniel sat across the room pretending not to watch.
“You wrote this before I came back?”
“Yes.”
Ethan read the line again.
Then he looked at his father.
“You notice now.”
Daniel nodded.
“Usually.”
“Sometimes you don’t.”
“I know.”
Ethan smiled.
“Good.”
At sixteen, Ethan returned to Blackridge Mountain Hotel.
His idea.
Daniel did not want to go.
Rachel, now chief of staff at a different hospitality company, said Ethan should.
The hotel had changed ownership.
The lobby looked almost identical.
Black marble.
Brass elevators.
Floor-to-ceiling glass.
No storm.
Summer light filled the mountain valley.
Ethan stood near the entrance.
He was taller now.
His hair still fell naturally to one side no matter what he did with it.
The album was under his arm.
Daniel stood beside him.
“You okay?”
Ethan nodded.
A family passed through the revolving door.
A little girl dragged a pink suitcase.
The wheels rattled over the threshold.
Ethan watched her.
“I used to think this was the worst place in the world.”
Daniel looked around.
“It’s overpriced.”
“True.”
“And the coffee is terrible.”
“Mom would say the hot chocolate was worse.”
Daniel smiled.
“Yes.”
They walked toward the lounge.
The young bellman who had returned Ethan’s album was now a front-desk supervisor.
He recognized them.
“No way.”
Ethan laughed.
“Hey.”
The man came around the desk.
“You got tall.”
“That happens.”
He looked at Daniel.
“You too?”
Daniel said, “Apparently not.”
They talked for ten minutes.
Nothing important.
Work.
School.
The hotel renovation.
The bellman—Luis—had gotten married.
His wife was expecting a baby.
Before leaving, Luis nodded toward the album.
“You still got it.”
Ethan looked down.
“Yeah.”
Luis smiled.
“Good.”
Outside, Ethan and Daniel sat on a bench overlooking the valley.
The album rested between them.
Ethan opened it.
The scratch from the marble remained on the leather.
Water stains marked the first page.
He had once wanted to repair them.
Now he did not.
Daniel looked through photographs.
When he reached the final empty sleeves, he stopped.
Ethan pulled several recent prints from his backpack.
Daniel raised an eyebrow.
“You printed photos?”
“Retro.”
“You mocked me for printing photos.”
May you like
“I’ve matured.”
One picture showed Ethan at fourteen holding a fish he had not wanted to touch.
