refused to let the tears spill.
“You could have mailed the photos to me,” I said. “You didn’t have to come.”
“You deserved a face,” Peter said. “Not another envelope.”
I stood up. My legs felt borrowed.
“I need to be alone,” I said.
“I know.”
He didn’t stand or reach for me. He slid the prom photo toward me and folded his hands.
“Keep it,” he said. “It was always yours.”
***
I walked past the window, past Hal and Marjorie as they were arriving, and past the maître d’,
