Page 98 of Handsome Devil
No. No way. Where did he…?
My old photo albums.
The ones Mum kept in the attic back home.
Dozens of them, for me to leaf through.
Pictures of Dad and Elliott and Mum and me. Of our pets throughout the years. Trips. Birthdays. Christmases. I rushed to one of the albums and sank to my knees. Flipped through the pages hungrily, cupping my mouth, tears of joy and laughter and sadness drifting from me. Bliss poured from the pages. Nostalgia flooded me.
Smiling faces.
Goofy expressions.
Notes Mum scribbled on blank address labels and glued under every picture, lest we forget.
Disneyland 2014. Elliott was too scared to ride anything but the teacups! Claimed he had food poisoning but then ate seven waffles when we got to the hotel.
Christmas 2017. Gia accidentally set her dress on fire trying to light a scented candle. Insisted on wearing it and said the asymmetrical edges were a part of the design.
Boxing Day 2012. Dad lost a footie bet. Man U won. He had to get the result tattooed to his arm.
A rush of memories slammed into me all at once.
The way Elliott squinted in all the photos to hide what he was certain was a lazy eye.
Dad always deliberately ruined family pictures with silly faces just to make Mum exasperated so they could make up in the grossest, most adorable way.
The way Mum always tsked and shook her head whenever Nicole Kidman popped up on the telly and said, “This woman called her daughter Sunday Rose, which is too bloody close to Sunday roast.”
An unfeminine snort escaped me, and I shook my head.
Pressing the albums to my chest, I tucked them in my room, where they’d be safe.
My heart stammered as I made my way toward Tate’s bedroom. I stopped at the threshold.
Perched on the edge of his bed, he was solving equations in a textbook, thick brows crumpled in deep in concentration. He oozed gentle violence. This elegant, complex, Victorian creature.
His free hand tapped against the side of his leg.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
I frowned, checking my Apple Watch.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
Two, six, two.
His tapping was in a three-second increment exactly, just as I’d calculated in Dr. Stultz’s office.
The penny dropped.
All this time, his body whispered his secret to me when Tate wasn’t looking.
