**Part 3**
But halfway across the library courtyard, another memory surfaced.
Nora snapping a book shut.
Me furious.
My own childish voice saying:
“Fine. Finish it yourself.”
I stopped walking.
Because suddenly I needed to know whether those had been the final words I’d ever said to her.
I texted Claire.
“Can you come outside?”
She appeared about a minute later but stopped several feet away from me.
“I remembered something.”
Claire waited.
“I told Nora to finish the book herself.” I rubbed the edge of the photograph with my thumb. “Was that the last time I saw her?”
Claire slowly shook her head.
“I don’t know exactly what your last conversation was.”
Strangely, that answer helped more than false certainty would have.
“But she talked about you afterward,” Claire added.
“What did she say?”
“Mostly that you were annoying.”
I laughed.
Then Claire smiled.
“She also said you always waited when she fell behind reading.”
I looked down at the photograph.
For years, Nora had existed somewhere inside my mind as a missing piece I’d stopped noticing was missing.
Now she was slowly becoming a person again.
Yellow glasses.
Cheating at games.
Skipping pages.
Getting angry with me.
I looked back at Claire.
“I believe you love me. But I don’t know what I trust yet.”
She stayed where she was.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. Neither do I.”
Claire nodded.
“What do you want me to do?”
The question surprised me.
“Tonight? Tell me about Nora.”
“And after?”
“I want to go home.”
“Okay.”
We spent another hour talking.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Nora hated raisins. She wanted a motorcycle when she turned 16. She believed rules in board games were “suggestions.”
When we eventually returned to Claire’s apartment, the green dress had been folded neatly over a chair.
“Do you want me to return it?” she asked.
“No.”
Claire looked at me.
“I bought it because you wanted it,” I said. “That part didn’t change.”
Then I went home.
Four days later, I went back to the library by myself and checked out the book Nora and I had once argued about.
The ending was terrible.
I texted Claire.
“Nora was right. The ending is awful.”
Her reply arrived almost immediately.
“She was unbearable when she was right.”
I smiled.
“I’m still at the library if you want to come argue about it.”
Claire arrived 20 minutes later.
We sat together at the same small children’s table.
As I read, her hand automatically moved toward the page.
I put one finger down.
“Hey. I’m not done.”
Her hand stopped.
“Sorry.”
She pulled it back.
And waited.
I finished the paragraph.
Then I turned the page myself.
THE END
