I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so painfully Douglas.
At nineteen he’d refused to let me visit him when he had chickenpox because, according to him, no human being should ever see another human being “looking like a furious strawberry.”
“You idiot,” I whispered.
A tiny smile appeared.
“There she is.”
I wiped my eyes.
“Forty-one years, and you’re still an idiot.”
“Consistent.”
Lucas laughed softly.
It was the first laugh in the room that didn’t hurt.
Then I looked at the photograph again.
“The baby.”
The warmth vanished.
Lucas lowered his eyes.
“Yes.”
“Who is the baby?”
Douglas’s gaze moved to his son.
Lucas took a slow breath.
“Me.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“I believe so.”
“No, you don’t believe so. Either that’s you or it isn’t.”
“We’re almost certain.”
Almost.
The word bothered me.
