Page 106 of Cara
It’s not a memory I want to linger on long.
Sophie says less and less as we progressively age through the photos. The innocence of childhood fades in each frame of us, friends who were now declared for each other. She squints against the dim light, taking in each detail. Instead of dwelling on the memories, I roll onto my side, brushing her hair aside to look at her in the flesh. My living, breathingwife.
“I don’t know how I didn’t see it,” Sophie says.
“See what?”
She shakes her head, and her speechlessness prompts me to check what’s caught her eye. It takes me a moment to notice the pattern she’s keeping hidden to herself—the one similarity to every photograph that I hadn’t caught on to either.
In every frame, I was lookingat her.
It didn’t matter what I was doing or how out of focus the camera was; the evidence is right there in every photo. My face burns, and it has nothing to do with how much alcohol I’ve consumed in the last hour.
Fucking hell.
These photos bare my soul—revealing decades of longing.
Vulnerability has never been something I'm comfortable with, so instead of responding, I flip onto my back against the blanket, my eyes drifting to the ceiling. With my arm resting behind my head, I feel her gaze moving over me.
Sophie shuffles through a few more pages before she turns onto her back like I have and holds up her arm, flashing me another picture.
The night of our wedding reception. I was leaning over the table, talking with my cousin Elio, unaware of the intensity on my new bride’s face as she stared at our entwined hands.
Sophie sets that one down, holding up another.
This one was taken here on the grounds. The photograph captured in the gardens confirms that my mother was behind the camera. That fact alone shakes me before I even notice us in the background, tangled in each other. I had Sophie pinned against one of our ancient oak trees, my hands tangled in her hair. We had just left the shooting range.
While I was looking down, laughing, she was staring at me.
Armed with another, Sophie flashes a clipping of us that my mother must have torn from a newspaper. Even the discoloredcutout can’t hide the love in Sophie’s eyes as she gazed at me amid the chaos of the crowded streets.
The last one she reveals is us in my father’s penthouse.
It was my birthday. My father gave money, as usual. A clear afterthought, although I didn’t blame him. I knew he was up to his ears in shit, and getting me something I didn’t even want was low on the list of priorities. Besides, he knew my mother would do the shopping for them both. Using his black card, she bought a few suits. These gifts were typical, even expected. I’d celebrated countless birthdays with Sophie growing up, but never one where she had something for me. She waited until my father left the room before slipping an envelope into my lap. An itinerary. The camera captured my confused smile well, but Sophie’s face…
Cazzo.
She loved me. Even then, she loved me.
I just didn’t know it yet.
I pluck the image from her hand. “You took me through Central Park.”
“We retraced our first date, finished off the night at your hotel.” She bites down on her lip, stuck on that photo. “Since we had our first kiss there. Fighting like idiots.”
“If I remember correctly, I didn’t waste my time fighting that second time.”
Amber flames highlight her fairness as she shields a laugh with her hand. “I was a changed woman that night.”
“I had to replace that bedframe.”
She gapes. “You didn’t…”
“I had to tell Aida and everything.”
“Oh, that’smortifying.”
I grin. “Wasn’t to me.”
