I’d gotten good at it. I’d built a whole career and a whole house and a whole set of friendships out of not thinking about him.
And forty minutes earlier, the landline in my parents’ kitchen had rung.
I pushed the door open.
What He Looked Like
Jeffrey was in the bed nearest the window.
He was much thinner than the boy I remembered. His hair had gone completely white — he’d had that sandy brown that went blond every summer, and now it was white and thin and combed carefully, which meant somebody had combed it.
His face had changed in all the ways a face changes across four decades.
But it was still him. It was still absolutely, unmistakably Jeffrey.
His eyes found mine.
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