For years, Nora had existed somewhere inside my mind as a missing piece I’d stopped noticing was missing.
Now she was slowly becoming a person again.
Yellow glasses.
Cheating at games.
Skipping pages.
Getting angry with me.
I looked back at Claire.
“I believe you love me. But I don’t know what I trust yet.”
She stayed where she was.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Neither do I.”
Claire nodded.
“What do you want me to do?”
The question surprised me.
“Tonight? Tell me about Nora.”
“And after?”
“I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
We spent another hour talking.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Nora hated raisins. She wanted a motorcycle when she turned 16. She believed rules in board games were “suggestions.”
When we eventually returned to Claire’s apartment, the green dress had been folded neatly over a chair.
“Do you want me to return it?” she asked.
“No.”
Claire looked at me.
“I bought it because you wanted it,” I said. “That part didn’t change.”
Four days later, I went back to the library by myself and checked out the book Nora and I had once argued about.
The ending was terrible.
I texted Claire.
“Nora was right. The ending is awful.”
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
“She was unbearable when she was right.”
I smiled.
“I’m still at the library if you want to come argue about it.”
Claire arrived 20 minutes later.
We sat together at the same small children’s table.
As I read, her hand automatically moved toward the page.
I put one finger down.
“Hey. I’m not done.”
Her hand stopped.
“Sorry.”
She pulled it back.
And waited.
I finished the paragraph.
Then I turned the page myself.
