Page 33 of Lost Love on 6th Street

It’s my fault. Diane has never been only a woman in a picture. “She’s real. You know? It’s real life and I just wasn’t prepared.”

Luke smiles sympathetically. “C’mere.”

I let him pull me into his chest. I don’t care that it’s hot as hell out here, and I don’t care that I smell like sweat. The second I’m pressed to him, all my tears abate, and my body relaxes. I’m not sure why. Maybe the fact that he’s one of the first friends I’ve made here in Austin. One of the first friends I’ve made as an adult. Something that’s always been harder as I’ve grown older.

I don’t know why he feels so compelled to be around me. Why he wants to comfort me as I cry.

But god am I thankful for it.

Luke’s arms lock around my neck and his lips brush my scalp. Almost like a kiss. He whispers, “I know it’s not what you hoped.”

“I don’t know what I hoped,” I say tearfully. I wanted the truth. Wanted answers. Wanted a story. And after Jolene said a story might solidify my permanent place at the library, I’ve hung my hat on the idea that I could weave a beautiful tale of the woman in the picture.

Diane.

Who knows what her story really is? She isn’t around to tell it.

I rip myself away from Luke and wipe the remainder of my tears away. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

Luke gives me a lopsided smile. “If I recall, I’m the one who invited myself along on this journey.”

“Still. I get so obsessive and then . . .” I sigh heavily. “I don’t know why I’m so disappointed.”

Luke reaches his hand into my bag. I furrow my brow, but don’t pull away, watching as he roots through all the contents.

“Jesus, does this thing belong to Mary Poppins? You’ve got everything in here,” he remarks.

I manage a laugh, though tears still bud in my eyes.

Finally, he gets what he was looking for. The picture. He holds it up. And for the first time in a while, I get a good look at it again. Guitar case in hand. Arm up in the air. Celebrating. Smiling. Tousled dark hair.

“You found the truth out, didn’t you?” he asks. “Found out who she was.”

“Yes, but . . . I don’t know, I thought there’d be more,” I say, wincing at the truth. “Is that weird?”

Luke shakes his head. “No. I just think you’re underestimating what a beautiful thing you’ve done.”

I laugh humorlessly. “What’s beautiful about some random person trying to track down—”

“The past few weeks, you’ve been celebrating someone who is no longer with us. You’ve been honoring her. And you didn’t even know it.”

I draw my eyes up to Luke’s. I don’t know how he manages to make his clear blue eyes feel so warm, but they feel like walking inside after a cold winter day in Chicago. The enveloping invitation of heat. “But now it’s over,” I say.

Luke’s forehead wrinkles at the center. “What are you talking about? Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean her story doesn’t live on.”

“I guess.” I take my phone from him. “There’s probably a way to contact her daughter, but that feels invasive and inappropriate.”

“Maybe.”

My face is starting to hurt. Sinus pressure from crying.

“You know her name now, though. That might yield something new.”

“The picture’s not even an original,” I grumble before taking it from him and stuffing it back in my bag, more harshly than I mean to. Guilt sifts through my blood. Just because it’s not a real photo—just because she’s not alive—doesn’t mean the journey to get here is meaningless. “My heart hurts,” I admit.

Luke hums thoughtfully. “Look at it this way. You spent the past few weeks learning Austin’s music forwards and backwards. You discovered the city. That counts for something, right?”

The hopefulness laced in his voice kills me. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful for all your help or the time we got to spend together.”

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