PART 2 — THE PRESENT
The gift bag had been under the table since eleven that morning.
I found that out later.
At the time, all I knew was that Bram was holding a small black bag in one hand and looking at Sasha like he’d finally stopped trying to protect her.
Sasha stared at him.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
She laughed nervously.
“Bram—”
“Go on.”
“You’re being weird.”
“Open it.”
Something in his voice changed the entire garden.
Sasha stopped smiling.
She slowly took the bag.
Pulled away the tissue paper.
Then she saw the frame.
Her face changed.
Not dramatically.
That would have been easier.
Instead, all the colour slowly disappeared from it.
Inside the frame was a photograph.
Two people standing beside a black car.
A hotel behind them.
A timestamp printed in the bottom corner.
8:23 a.m.
Tuesday.
Sasha’s car was parked beside them.
The man was Callan.
The woman was Sasha.
They weren’t kissing.
They didn’t need to be.
The way they stood told its own story.
Her hand was inside his coat.
His hand was resting against her waist.
And they were looking at each other like people who had done this many times before.
Sasha whispered, “Bram.”
My mother took the frame from her.
She looked at it.
Then at Sasha.
Then at Callan.
She sat down.
Callan said my name.
“Bryony—”
I raised my hand.
He stopped.
I didn’t want his explanation.
Not yet.
I looked at Sasha.
“How long?”
She stared at me.
“Sasha.”
Nothing.
“How long?”
Callan stepped forward.
“It wasn’t what you think.”
I laughed.
Actually laughed.
Because there are sentences so stupid they become funny.
“What do you think I think?”
“Bryony, listen to me.”
“No.”
I pointed at the photograph.
“I am looking at it.”
“It isn’t—”
“How long?”
Sasha finally spoke.
“Please.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Bryony, I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then you should have stopped.”
She looked away.
That was when something inside me broke.
Not because she admitted it.
Because she didn’t deny it.
Bram walked toward the table.
He reached into his jacket.
“There’s more.”
Sasha turned toward him.
“Bram, don’t.”
He pulled out another photograph.
“This one was taken three months before you married me.”
He placed it on the table.
Then another.
“That one was two months before.”
Another.
“The week before.”
My mother covered her mouth.
