Page 4 of When We Were Young

CHAPTER TWO

Oscar

Ihear her car arrive. Old, rattling, an engine that sounds like it’s had much healthier days. But as soon as I hear it, I just know it’s her. She’s a minute late. Just one minute. I smile, despite myself. I suppose that’s an improvement.

I cross to the window and watch as a small red car—an old Skoda—parks outside. I can see her inside it, blond hair tied back. Her windows are a little steamed up, and I can’t see her expression as she sits there.

And this is it.

My stomach tightens, and I take a deep breath as I watch her. This is it. This is when I see her again. I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Shit. Why am I sweating?

Outside, Emma opens her car door, then leans across for something before she gets out. She carries my album in one hand, not close to her body, as snowflakes swirl around her. Even through the window, I can see that the tip of her nose is pink. She hasn’t dressed for the weather.

Oh, silly Emma.

But that’s her. That’s what she does.Carefree, my grandmother called her, that first time I introduced them. I’d brought Emma back for dinner. I’d made a shepherd’s pie the night before and Grandmother had heated it up for six o’clock, the time I told her that Emma and I would arrive.

In actuality, we were late. Emma’s always late—but, together, we’d be later still, stopping for a few quick kisses that would turn into more...

I watch Emma tread carefully across the frozen grass. She’s dressed simply. A jumper and skinny jeans. Worn-looking trainers.

She looks good. A little older, obviously, but I don’t mean that in a bad way. She’s grown into herself.

And she’s beautiful. She never used to tie her up, but doing so draws attention to the structure of her face. Her small nose and high cheekbones.

Sobeautiful.

And she’s here. That has to mean something. That she wants a second chance with me just as much as I do with her.

I close my eyes, just for a second, before I move to the front door, and open it. Then I wince, realizing it’s a dead giveaway that I was watching her from the window and knew when to open the door.

“Hi.” Her voice sounds different.

I nod—because I don’t know what to say or if I can even speak. Having her here feels wrong. She wasn’t supposed to resurface from my memories, but here she is—and she’s bringing a flood of them with her.

The time we went swimming in the lakes, during that hottest summer, when she persuaded me to skinny dip with her. How we kissed with the water around us.... The time we went away together. Our first holiday, Paris. Going on a midnight tour. Then the Christmas holidays. Kissing her in the snow, my arms around her, the fur of her hat tickling my forehead... The time we lay on my bed, entwined, talking. Talking about the future we wanted—the future IsaidI wanted with her.

How, two months later, I told her it wasn’t working.

I swallow hard, and I want to block it out—because how can I explain it and tell her I’m sorry? How can words ever be enough?

But she’s back now, and I search her face for any trace of anger. I don’t find any. She’s calm, and I don’t know how she’s so calm when I was so mean. When I cut her off completely, gave no real reason. When she saw me with those other girls so soon afterward. She never said anything about that, but I saw the sheer hurt in her eyes as Jenna led her away.

“Here it is,” she says.

Emma’s holding out the album, and I reach for it, both hands at once, as if it’s going to be heavy.

“Thank you.” The albumisheavier than I remembered, and I hold it against my body. “You didn’t have to—so thank you.”

It feels strange, holding the album after all these years. Inside it are the only photos of my parents. I never met them. My mother was in labor with me and my father was driving her to the hospital. A lorry plowed into them.

I was delivered by emergency C-section.

Apparently, I was a miracle.

And this album—this weight against my torso—is all I have of them. My grandmother sorted out the photos carefully, she wanted me to have a connection to my parents, to know them. But she’d never talk about them. It made her too sad, and I never wanted her to be sad.

So I’d pore over the album in my room, most evenings. It was always on my desk, always waiting so I could say goodnight to my parents.

---