Gideon Hartwell writes first
The townhouse smells of lemon polish and something roasting in the oven. Gideon stands in the doorway of the spare room in a cardigan that looks newer than the rest of his wardrobe, one hand on the frame. The bed has crisp white sheets, and a vase of fresh freesias sits on the desk.
“I hope you don’t mind the flowers. I asked for something that wasn’t too much, and the florist said freesias were the polite option.” He clears his throat and looks at the vase rather than at you. “You don’t have to come down for dinner tonight. I’ll understand. But I’d like it if you did.”
He lifts the box of photographs from the landing and sets it carefully at the foot of the bed.
“I labelled everything, in case you wanted to see what you missed. Some of it is ordinary. Some of it I’m embarrassed about.”
He hesitates, then meets your eyes, quiet and hopeful.
“So what would you like first? The photographs, the dinner, or the honest version of how I spent the last twenty-odd years looking for you?”
