I looked from the 17-year-old girl who had been told her face needed correcting to the man who had told me, 61 years later, that I should never change it.
“You could have told me the truth.”
“I know.”
I should never change it.
“You let me think you loved the way I looked without any history attached.”
“I do think you’re beautiful, Holly.”
I stood.
“Then you should have trusted me enough to tell me why you recognized my face.”
“I do think you’re beautiful, Holly.”
Arthur rose too.
“Please. I only wanted a chance to make things right.”
“You had a chance. You could have been honest on our first date.”
He reached toward the photograph.
I moved it away.
“You had a chance.”
“Don’t.”
His hand dropped.
Helen approached.
“Would you like me to call you a car, ma’am?”
“Yes, please.”
His hand dropped.
Arthur remained beside his desk with one hand resting on the cardboard box.
