Page 2 of When We Were Young

And he owes me it really. After what he did.

There’s a little garden in front of the house, and I stare at the snow-covered lawn for a moment. Tiny blades of grass are trying to poke through, and it makes the lawn look prickly. Not smooth.

He always said how he liked the smoothness of my skin against his.

We’re on my bed, and his hands roam over my thighs. His touch is soft, but firm. Gentle, but meaningful.

I sit up and pull him closer, then down with me.

“Take your shirt off.” My voice is breathy, and then I’m helping him to get it off.

Skin against skin, and I can’t get close enough.

I pull in a deep breath, take my driving gloves off, and drape them carefully over the wheel. Then I open the door and grab the photo album. My legs shake as I get out of my car. Snowflakes cling to my face and hands, and the air feels colder than ever.

And I smile. I don’t know why.

Actually, I do. It reminds me of our first date, and how Oscar saidit’s chilly today.

He took me hiking. My first official hike, and I hadn’t known what to wear, so I’d just worn ordinary clothes. Jeans and a jumper. A thin raincoat.

By the time we got up onto the mountains, I was shivering. Oscar took off his coat and I protested, said I was fine. And that’s when he said it—that it was chilly today—and he wrapped me in his coat.

I smile at the memory and—

Oscar opens the door before I’ve reached the paving slabs by the little welcome mat. Someone’s already cleared the snow from around the entrance, but I can’t imagine it was him. Not unless he’s changed.

Of coursehe’s changed. It’s been eight years since he broke my heart.

When we were at university, I’d never have guessed he’d become a businessman. Not when he studied English literature and was president of the pottery society by our second year. But he’s successful now. And I look at him. Oscar Cooper, the twenty-eight-year-old whom I shouldn’t still feel things for—but I do.

He stands in his doorway in jeans and a red flannel shirt, and he looks...the same. That’s all I can think as I reach his doorstep, the photo album in my hand. Oscar is the same. Those dark eyes that I know so well. Oscar, with his nearly black hair that I ran my fingers through too many times to remember. I loved doing that.

“Hi.” My voice is quiet, meek. Not like our last words that deafened me over and over again. I couldn’t stop hearing them for months.

Oscar nods.

Time stops, and I stare at him. I thought this would feel weirder, that maybe I’d break down crying, the chasm in my heart ripped open again just upon the mere sight of him.

But it doesn’t happen.

He just looks like him, and I just feel like me.

Two people who used to know each other well—and I can almost hear Jenna’s indignant exclamations, the exclamations that will come when I tell her I went to see Oscar:“Are you mad? He hurt you. Emma, I’m not picking up the pieces again.”

But there will be no pieces to pick up this time. I’m tougher now. And I’m only here for one reason.

I clear my throat. “Here it is.” My knees feel a little weak as I hold out the album for him. I haven’t put it in a bag or anything, and snowflakes are getting on it. I brush them off quickly. The leather cover is cracked, but it still has that old smell to it. When I found the album, I held it to my face, inhaled that smell, and remembered when he first showed me it, ten years ago.

We are sitting in my room, on my bed. His back is against the wall, and the album is in his lap. I’m next to him, cross-legged. His fingers shake as he opens the album.

“It’s all I know of them.” There’s sadness in his eyes, and I reach out, touch his hand.

He smiles, grateful.

Together, we go through the pages. He shows me his parents, young and in love. Thirty-seven photos of them. Some glossy, some a little creased.

“I’ve got stories for each one,” he says, and his voice is low, quiet.

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