Don't Let Go(48)

Shayna was probably right on my tail, or burning up Noah’s phone, but I didn’t care. She could watch me rip Noah a new one and then follow me to the diner to get to the truth.
I skidded into Johnny Mack’s driveway and had a foot outside before the key was even turned off. I poked at the doorbell three times, then three more for good measure. I’d just started rapping on the wood with my knuckles when the door swung open.
Damn it if he couldn’t make me pull in an extra breath, even as pissed off and crazed as I was. Standing there fresh from a shower, barefoot, in gray sweatpants and an old faded Navy T-shirt, his frown turned wary as he saw my face.
“Jules, what are you—”
“Where are they?” I asked.
The frown came back. “Where are—what?”
“The pictures of him,” I spat, walking in uninvited and pushing past him and his warm aroma of soap and sexiness. “Where are they?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, closing the door and following behind me. “Look, Shayna told me what my dad said, and I’m sorry. I talked to him about it already.”
I paced the living room I hadn’t seen in over twenty years, noting that everything was still in the exact same place. Every piece of furniture, every photograph. Even one of Noah and me at the junior prom, me holding my flowers in front of my nonexistent bump. I was surprised he left that one out. It was like stepping back in time. But there was not one new photograph of a boy. Not anywhere.
“Jules,” he said. “Did you hear me?”
I wheeled around to face him. “You had framed pictures of our son in Italy.”
Noah blinked and physically moved back a step. “Okay.”
I scoffed. “Okay?”
He held his hands up. “What do you want me to say?”
“What do I want—” My heart was pounding so hard I thought I might pass out. “Are you kidding me? Where are they?”
“They’re packed up. I don’t have a place to live yet, remember?” he said. “What the hell is going on with you?”
Why was he so calm? He wasn’t even trying to hide it or deny it.
“Noah,” I said, braving the distance and grabbing his T-shirt to get his attention. His sharp intake of breath told me I’d gotten it. “How do you have photos of him?”
He looked down into my face with the same look Shayna had given me. Like I’d lost my mind. “The same way you do.” When I just shook my head, he blew out a frustrated breath and pulled free of me. “Hang on a second.”
He disappeared down a hallway to what I knew must still be his old room and came back seconds later holding his wallet.
“Look,” he said, flipping to the photos. “It’s the same ones—”
I sucked in a breath as a face that looked like the male version of Becca when she was little, only with blue eyes, smiled back at me with no front teeth. It swam in front of me as tears reasserted themselves and came forth with a vengeance.
“Jules?” he said, his tone changed.
“Oh, my G—” I choked, taking the wallet from him and touching the photos gingerly as I turned them. “Oh, my God, my baby.”
I didn’t realize I was backing up until I met with solid wall, and once I did I started sliding down it.
“Whoa, whoa,” Noah said, jumping forward and grabbing me by the upper arms. “Hold on, come here.”
He attempted to pull me to him, but I pushed back. “Why?” I breathed, turning another and another as the boy got older.
Seth, Fifth grade was marked on the back of one with neat blue pen.
“Seth?” I choked. “His name is Seth? He has a—oh, my God.” It was too much. Suddenly the nameless, faceless little boy I’d mourned for and prayed for the last twenty-six years was a fleshed-out person with a name and a life, and it made the loss even more grueling. “He’s beautiful,” I breathed.
Noah didn’t have them back to back, I realized through my haze, so he could see the years. Ninth grade, eleventh, a cap and gown picture, a snapshot of him standing next to a pretty girl, looking less like Becca at that point and more like Noah. And the last one, in a policeman’s uniform at an academy graduation, looking very much like Noah, grinning next to two other guys. Men. He was a man now.
“Why—how?” I pushed out. “Where did these come from?” I sucked in a shaky breath. “And why didn’t you tell me?”
“My dad sent them,” he said. His hand came to my face and tried to lift my chin but I jerked my face away, not wanting to look away from the little boy I’d last seen when he was two minutes old. “You have these, too.”
“No!” I yelled, the sound more of a wail. “I have nothing!” At his shocked face, I pushed him back and walked the room, pressing his wallet to my chest. I gulped in air, unable to get enough, like something was pulling the oxygen from the room. “How did he do this?” I asked, turning to face him, begging with my eyes.
Noah’s face showed a myriad of reactions—confusion, disbelief, questions. “I don’t understand,” he said, more to himself than to me.
“The adoption was sealed, Noah. No contact. How the hell did he get pictures, and—” A sob took over my throat. “I’ve been here all along. How could he not show me—”
My knees threatened to give way again, and I spurred myself into motion before the feeling could win. Before I’d let this agony overwhelm me, I had to get the facts. Walking straight to the door, I opened it and headed to my car, Noah’s wallet still held against my chest.