Page 140 of Only You

He leaned forward. “Can I…would you allow me…” His eyes filled with tears.

“You want to see it?”

“Please.”

“Of course. Yeah. Hold on.” I left him again to go up to my room, grabbing the manila envelope from my backpack and carrying it down to him.

I poured the items out on the coffee table, and he snatched a photo of George out of the stack. “Oh, love. Look at you. So young. So handsome.”

I picked up the journal and handed it to him. Harold flipped through the pages, touching the handwriting like it was precious, and then he skimmed through, clearly looking for his name.

“Ah, that trip to the seaside. He writes that he was happy. I was happy too, George, I hope you know that.”

He read on, and I felt like an interloper, but I didn’t know what to do. Should I go upstairs and leave him alone with the journal? Give it to him and let him keep it? But what if my mother did want to read it one day? Still…she’d given it to me. It was mine to do with as I saw fit.

“You should have that,” I said, as he flipped to another page. “He would have wanted you to have it.”

“Would he?” Harold asked, his voice thick with what sounded like tears. “I see this last entry about me gives me no grace. He lays it all so bare. Not the horrible, florid writer that I am, always making things prettier than they were. No, he just wrote it out bare. The truth.” He wiped at his eyes. “I really did say these things to him.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “These were the last words I ever said to the man I loved more than any other.”

“I’m truly sorry.” The weight of it was so heavy, I felt it pushing on me, though it wasn’t my burden to bear.

His shoulders shook and tears fell. I reached out to take his hand, but he didn’t let me, saying, “I’m sorry. This is all more than you bargained for. I shouldn’t have come.” He pressed the journal into my hands, rising. “I should have written you back like a sane, measured man, the kind of man that George was.”

He snorted. “Instead, I fought against giving you any kind of response, pushing it out of my mind, and then this morning I got up and dressed, pulled your letter from the pile, and mapped out the roads to your home. On Thanksgiving weekend, too. I’m sure you have better things to do than to watch an old man break down.”

“I don’t,” I said, putting my hand on his arm to forestall his leaving. “Take off your coat. Stay longer. There are some more pictures, and I’d like to know more about him.”

“Do you have stories of him, too? Things your mother told you that you could share?” He sounded so hopeful, so eager to get more scraps of his long-dead love.

“I don’t,” I said. “I wish I did. But my mother can’t speak of him much. She…” I swallowed, not sure I should say it, not wanting to bring up the horrible images again, but perhaps it would help him understand. “She found him that morning in the yard. So, she can’t think about him too much.” I motioned at my face. “Having me as a son—a gay son at that—has made it harder on her.”

Harold studied me. “I’m sure it has. Your eyes, especially. It’s uncanny.”

“Sit down,” I offered. “This is hard, but I think we both want to talk about him.”

Harold nodded and took his coat off, handing it to me. I went to hang it up by the door, and when I returned, he was back on the sofa, another photo of George in his hand, caressing it with the tips of his fingers. “He was funny, did you know?” Then, realizing that of course I didn’t know, he said, “He always made me laugh.”

“I’d love to hear about that.”

Harold nodded, and I listened to him talk for a long time. It wasn’t the way I’d imagined meeting him, but it was real and honest, and when the afternoon started to grow dark, he decided it was time to find a hotel in the area. “I’m too old to drive all the way back tonight,” he said. “Time was, I’d do day trips to anywhere in a five-hour radius. But now…”

“I’m glad you came,” I said, walking him to the door.

“Me too, Peter. It was good to meet you.” He paused on the steps outside and turned back around. “Wait, about your photography…”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to see some of your work. Can you send some samples to me? At my address?”

“Ah, I don’t—”

“I’d like to see what you’re capable of. I can’t make any promises, but I do happen to know people in the field,” he teased. “If you have a unique eye, then perhaps I can make some introductions. George would want me to do that for you, and it would be a pleasure to do something I know would make him smile.”

I shook his hand, and he pulled me in for a hug. A spicy cologne surrounded me. Was this the scent George had breathed in all those years ago? Or had Harold changed his fragrance? When I broke away, Harold’s eyes were teary again.

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