You snatched the photo from his hands. “How do you know Michael?”
Daniel rubbed a hand over his mouth, suddenly looking older. “He works with me. Or… worked with me. Until last month.”
You got out of bed so quickly the room spun. “No. No, absolutely not.”
He stood too. “I didn’t know who you were last night.”
“Stop talking.”
“I’m serious. I didn’t. I swear to God.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
His voice sharpened with desperation. “Yes, because it’s true. Michael showed me photos of his family months ago. Not many. He’s private. But I remembered his father’s face. That’s why when I saw that picture just now…” He exhaled hard. “I recognized him.”
You backed away from him, clutching the photo to your chest. A sick, electric horror raced through your body. Your son. Your son. Out of all the bars in all the neighborhoods in all the rotten impossible world, you had come home with a man who knew your son.
“What exactly was he to you?” you asked.
Daniel looked at the floor for half a second too long.
And in that half second, something worse opened.
Your voice dropped. “What exactly was he to you?”
He looked up.
“We were together.”
The words hit like blunt force.
Not friends. Not coworkers. Not old classmates. Together.
Your knees nearly gave out.
For one surreal, nauseating moment, all your thoughts scattered into nonsense fragments. Michael at thirteen, refusing to wear a tie to church. Michael at twenty-three, calling to say he’d gotten a promotion. Michael at thirty, introducing you to the woman who would become his wife. Michael three months ago, too distracted on the phone to talk for more than four minutes. Michael, your son, your quiet boy with your husband’s eyes and your stubborn mouth. Together.
“With you?” you whispered.
Daniel’s face folded inward. “I didn’t know who you were.”
