The Girl He Loves Novel – I stood tidying up the bedroom, pick up a picture frame and see the image of Brian and I on our wedding day. It’s one of my favorite photos. Suddenly a picture fell out of the frame, my stomach drops. The picture was a young girl, not much older than our son Trevor. There are also digitally printed word-Ava. Where did this photo come from? How long has it been hiding? She is absolutely stunning. She looks like a younger version of myself — fresh-faced, full cheeks, long silky hair. Brian’s secret? When I saw the following line of small words, I collapsed. ‘my love.’
Mischa My timer goes off. It’s three o’clock on the dot. Mollie needs me. I quickly gather my notebooks and papers and arrange them in an orderly stack next to my laptop. I tuck my pen and pencil into my pencil holder, and grab my empty cup. As soon as Mollie hears the flick of the can tab, she comes sprinting. I bend down to pet her soft fur, and she rubs the top of her head against my wrist, wanting more. I scratch her neck for a second. As I empty the contents of the Fancy Feast tin into a glass bowl, she slithers between my legs, her long tail up high. This is obviously her favorite time of day. Her second favorite time of day is at night when we cuddle to watch television or read. I’m her #1 person — the boys are too wild for her, and Brian’s not really a cat person. As soon as she dips her head to her food, I head to the laundry room to clean up her cat litter.
I do this methodically, quickly. I wash my hands and grab a cloth from the linen closet. My daily condo tidy is a dance of sorts. It’s very quick and precise. I follow the same direction, execute the same movements as I restore the order of things. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Yet another ritual of mine. The boys have even started following in my footsteps, especially Trevor. I know I’m being obsessive, but I tell myself it’s to help with Tristan’s allergies — not a dust particle in sight. I’m thinking about our lunch conversation as I dust the dressers and knick knacks in our master bedroom. There’s a pretty decorative box by the window, a wedding gift, that I like to position a certain way.
Brian often turns it around to mess with me. I’ve told him a thousand times not to touch it. But he doesn’t listen of course. I don’t know how it happens. My movements are usually so precise. I don’t think I’ve ever dropped anything before, never broken a fragile vase, or knocked a book off a table. The picture frame is splayed, its face against the wood floor. I hope the glass is not broken — I can’t quite see. I bend to pick up the pieces. The back stand has popped out, and the picture is also on the floor, its white backing facing me. I pick up the photo and turn to see the image of Brian and I on our wedding day. We’ve been living in this antique pearl trimmed silver frame (another wedding gift) for about fifteen years now. It’s one of my favorite photos, and I never plan to replace it. When my eyes land back on the floor, I notice another photo, and I’m very confused. When I flip it over, my stomach drops. From confusion, shock, I’m not sure.
The picture in my hand is a photo of a young girl. A beautiful young girl. Perhaps sixteen years old or so, not much older than Trevor. I don’t understand. Her gaze is intoxicating. Beautiful blue eyes and dark hair. She looks so innocent, and kind of sad. Who is she? I study the photo, both the front and back. It’s just a girl, smiling but not quite. She’s wearing a striped t-shirt. The back of the photo has two faint watermarks scattered across its white backing. FUJI FILM Fuji Color Crystal Archive Paper There are also digitally printed numbers. 014232 153/169+ ava201785.jpg 153 14232 ava20178 Her name is Ava. My fingers shake and my heart pounds as I pick up the picture frame. Miraculously, the glass is intact. I press the picture of the girl behind our wedding day photo, back to its place, where it’s been quietly hidden for who knows how long.
I press the back stand in and tuck in the steel pegs to secure the photos inside. I position the frame exactly as it was. I resume my dusting. I have a schedule to adhere to. The routine flows since it’s wired in my brain. I could do it in my sleep. I dust the rest of the room, all the while, asking myself a million questions. Where did this photo come from? Perhaps it’s always been there. Our good friends Janet and Robert, who hadn’t been able to attend our wedding, gave us the frame years ago. It already held our wedding photo, and it was accompanied by a rather large check. I’ve never opened the frame, never peeked inside. Perhaps this photo has always been there. I distinctly remember receiving the gift — the frame was in a plain brown box, no product tag attached. It’s an antique after all — maybe it was a regift. Perhaps they hurriedly grabbed an old frame of theirs and inserted our photo, and forgot to remove the existing picture.
Perhaps the photo is a niece of theirs. Come to think of it, she did bare a resemblance to Janet, who is also blue eyed and dark haired. I haven’t spoken to Janet, an old colleague of mine, in forever. Not long after our wedding, she and Robert moved away to New York. Yes, that’s got to be it, I tell myself. But then, my other voice says. But what if it’s more? What if Ava is a secret? Brian’s secret? She is absolutely stunning. She looks like a younger version of myself — fresh-faced, full cheeks, long silky hair. Could Brian have a thing for young girls. Most men do, as much as they wouldn’t want to admit it. Brian loves kids — he’s a high school teacher, and he adores his job. God, I feel sick. How old is this girl?