Chapter 30
I leave work an hour later feeling wrung out, emotionally and physically.
Sara had stayed for another hour, and I filled her in on Ben and all the details I had withheld over the past few weeks to spare her feelings while she was hyper-focused on Matt.
She even listened intently when I told her about my upcoming photography class, and demanded that I fly out to LA to take her baby’s first professional portrait.
Still, by the time I unlock the front door of my apartment building in the North End, exhaustion has pooled behind my eyes. The lobby smells faintly of that familiar lemon cleaner, and I actually find myself taking in a deep breath. Enjoying it.
Home, I think. This is home.
I pull off my knit cap, sending my hair out and up and in every direction, then start forward toward the stairwell.
I almost miss a glance at the mailboxes, my body already planning the route upstairs, the knock on Ben’s door, the feel of his arms around me as he pulls me into a hug.
But then something catches my eye—one of the mailboxes is close to overflowing.
Mailbox 3A.
Oh my God. When was the last time I checked my mail?
I scramble over, picking through my key ring until I find the smallest one and slip it into the lock.
As soon as I turn it, a pile of envelopes pours out—only about half of which I manage to catch—while even more remain stuck inside, their corners jutting out like they’ve been trying to escape for weeks. They probably have.
Most of it is exactly what you’d expect.
Grocery store flyers. Credit card offers with my name printed optimistically across the front, like they have more faith in me regaining access to my bank accounts than I do.
It all feels impersonal, proof that life keeps advertising itself even when you’re not paying attention.
Then I see another envelope.
It’s thicker than the rest, cream-colored, with my name typed neatly across the front. The return address reads: PHOTO-RAMA.
My heart gives a small, surprised kick. It’s the pictures from my 35 mm camera.
I shove the other mail back in the mailbox, then rip open the envelope. The photos are neatly stacked in a paper sleeve and I pull them out, careful not to get my fingerprints on them.
The first one is of Salem Street at dusk. Bova’s Bakery glows against the evening light, illuminating the line of people waiting to get inside.
The next photo is of the dining room at Strange Brew, then the next is of Bobbi, eyes crossed as he makes a face for the camera. There’s one of Claire, too, then a few of them together.
Then I flip to the next photo and my breath falters.
It’s Ben. He’s relaxed, his reading glasses tucked into the collar of his sweater as he glances over to someone off camera. As I look closer, I realize I recognize the room. This was taken in the gallery with the missing paintings at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum.
Did he know I took this photo? Or the next one, of him sitting on his sofa, reading Jane Eyre. Or the next, of him at Haymarket, surveying a selection of produce. Or the next, of him in Harvard Yard, looking up at the gnarled branches of the trees.
These are my memories. The moments I had been chasing for weeks. The fall might have stolen the negatives, but here are the prints. This is the proof.
I rush upstairs, past the second floor and the echoing notes of “Fernando,” to the third floor. Ben’s door is locked but I pound on it until I hear his footsteps. He pulls it open, wearing that pair of sweatpants I love and a hoodie, and offers me that rare smile, warm and intense and just for me.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Look,” I say, handing him the pile of photographs.
He takes it, flipping through them one by one, brow furrowed. By the time he gets to the bottom, his expression is awestruck.
“These are incredible. I didn’t even know you took these,” he says.
“I know,” I say, my smile returning. “I’m a really good photographer.”
“Yeah, you are.” His voice is soft, a mix of astonishment and pride.
Somehow, my smile broadens even more as he wraps his arms around me, lifting me up and walking slowly back into his apartment as he murmurs words of praise into my ear. How he’s proud of me. How he never doubted me for a minute.
Something warm and glowing and alive hums in my chest. It takes me a moment to recognize what it is: happiness.
I’m happy, I think, as Ben lays me down on his bed and whispers how much he loves me. As I curl into his body and bury my face in his neck. Right now, in this perfect moment, I’m happy.
Then Ben leans back and pushes my errant bangs away from my face, only to have a few strands bounce back out and poke him in the eye.
I smile and arch up to kiss him. And he kisses me back.
This is happiness.
How many mistakes did I have to make to get here? There were so many wrong turns, so much doubt and second-guessing, but somehow, it still led me to this. Is that destiny? I don’t know. But right now, it feels pretty damn close.