Page 102 of Head Under Water

There are several from prom and then graduation. It’s impossible not to notice we’re always standing far apart, with the moms as our glue.

I turn the page, looking closer.

Finally, there’s a photo of the two of us together where we don’t look disgusted with each other, though I don’t remember anything about that day. We must be around sixteen or seventeen. We’re on the couch together, Nintendo 64 controllers in hand. Will has spread out, taking up most of the space and resting his back against my side. We’re eating Twizzlers and Sour Skittles, both smiling lazily at whatever is on the screen.

The same page holds a few photos of the day we left for Havenport. Shots of us loading our boxes into the car, Ruth buzzing around in the background, directing. Mom and Margie barely holding it together while Will and I stand as far apart as possible.

Then there are more of the moms together. In some, they’re around kitchen tables, chatting over glasses of wine.

In others, the room is filled with smoke and their eyes are glassy, though they’ve carefully hidden the evidence off-camera.

There are pages upon pages of them writing postcards, baking snacks, working in the garden, dancing to Mom’s record player—laughing, always.

It fills something in me I didn’t realize was empty until this moment, seeing her this happy. Remembering how it always was.

“Do you think you missed out on anything? After you and Dad split up. I mean…did you ever consider dating anyone else? Falling in love? Were you scared to get hurt again?” I guess I’ve always thought the pain wasn’t worth it, but there has always been a part of me that wondered, especially now.

Her smile is distant, like she heard the question, but her head is still lost in the memories scattered across the page. She taps her fingers on the corner of the book, knuckles swollen with arthritis.

“Opal, love is everything.” Her eyes meet mine. “It’s the only thing that matters. And it would’ve been worth falling in love and getting hurt a thousand times over to have what your father and I had. Just because it ended doesn’t mean it didn’t matter. But…I never felt like I needed it again. Not because I didn’t want to get hurt, but because I had all the love I could’ve asked for.” Everything about her features softens. “You kids. My girls. Love can be friendship, too, you know? And we were all so full of love, I’m not sure there was room for anything else. Anyone else.”

Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for something, an answer I don’t have. “That doesn’t mean I think you should run away from the romantic sort of love if you’re lucky enough to find it.”

I see it there, the truth.

She’s always known what I’m just figuring out.

I can’t meet her gaze, so I turn back to the photos. This book is as messy and chaotic as Margie, all out of order. On the next page, we’re kids again. Ruth is braiding my wet hair as I sit on the couch in my Little Mermaid nightgown. There’s a photo of Cory curled up asleep with orange Cheetos dust smeared around his mouth.

Another shows the three of us eating cereal out of bowls with built-in straws, hair messy from sleep. I’m wearing a faded Shania Twain T-shirt that probably came from the concert.

There’s one of Mom and Margie applying lipstick side by side in our bathroom mirror.

And then—I stop, looking closer.

There’s one from college. It should’ve been in the other book, I think.

I ease closer, studying the photo.

Mom, Margie, and Ruth are standing near the Pavilion on Havenport’s campus, all sporting purple shirts from the same university event.

At the end of the line, Ruth’s arm is wrapped around a man I don’t recognize at first. Another student, maybe, but…they’re both wearing wedding rings. And when I look closer…

“Who is this?” I ask, lifting the photo so Mom can get a better look.

She doesn’t seem to need it, though. “That’s Ruth’s ex-husband.”

Something sinks in my chest. “Is his name George?”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

PRESENT DAY

“How do you know that?” Mom stares at me in confusion.

The moment stretches between us.

“I…work with him. He’s the gym teacher at my school.”