I saw Cat every few days when she returned to the apartment for a change of clothes or, occasionally, to spend the night. She had tattoos and cool thrift-store outfits, and when I first learned she was a musician, I thought, That makes sense. Then she clarified that she was a cellist, studying at Juilliard. Her boyfriend, Paolo, was the lead singer in an indie band. It was a Thursday night. Cat was standing in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal before she headed back downtown.
“You sure you don’t want to come along?” she asked, rinsing her bowl in the sink, opening the fridge. Cat’s visits to the apartment were always crammed with action, a determination to squeeze as much utility as she could from her trip uptown. “They’re playing at the Bowery Electric. It’ll be a great crowd. We’re going out afterward.”
“I think I’m going to stay in. Thanks, though.”
“Text me if you change your mind.” She paused amid her flurry and looked at me. “You know, the drummer—he’s single, and you are totally his type.”
I laughed. “Go, I’ll be fine.” Cat waved as she walked out the door, and then the apartment was quiet again. Cat had lived in this apartment for four years, since she had started at Juilliard, and the place carried the sediment of permanent life: framed posters, painted walls. I could see why she didn’t want to give it up. There was an elaborate sound system in the living room. Cat sometimes plugged in her stereo headphones and listened to recordings of her work, head nodding and eyes scrunched closed, opening only when she paused to scribble down notes.
A towering stack of CDs sat next to the speakers. I don’t know what inspired me that night, after Cat left, to crouch down and examine them for the first time. She had gestured at them before, telling me to play them whenever I liked. A familiar title stood out in the stack. Kind of Blue, which Adam used to play for me. I slid the CD into the tray. A moment later, the music began, filling the apartment. The twinned initial steps of piano and bass, the soft invocation, the shimmering light of percussion, the eventual pierce of the trumpet. Adam liked to put things before me, novels or albums or movies, and when he told me of their greatness I’d nod along, feigning comprehension, letting his gestures guide my response. I must have heard this album a dozen times at his apartment, but that night was the first time I actually listened to it. I let it fill me, like water rising in a glass.
I’d finally opened the envelope of photos that afternoon. I felt myself on the verge of something. My mother would have opened the photos after Jasmine had them developed; it was the only way for her to have known they were mine. I imagined her pulling the first one from the stack, her hand twitching instinctively toward the trash bin. No one would have been the wiser. But instead she had sent them to me. I felt grateful to her in that moment, when I took out the photos for the first time. At least she was letting me decide this for myself.
My digital camera had broken while we were in Rome, two summers earlier. The battery fritzed, refusing to hold a charge. I bought a disposable camera in the train station on our way to La Spezia. We were spending the last week of the trip in the Cinque Terre. The first photo I’d taken, the photo at the top of the stack, was of Evan in Riomaggiore. He was standing on a stone boat ramp that led to the sea, his back to the water, the afternoon light casting his long shadow before him. The boats around him were painted like wooden candy, bright blues and greens and pinks. Evan had resisted when I told him to go stand for the picture. “Come on, Jules, let me take one of you,” he said with a laugh. “You’re the good-looking one in this relationship.” But I shook my head. “This picture is for me,” I said. “I want this for when we get back.”
The magic had faded so quickly. I must have misplaced the camera when I was back at home, unpacking from the summer and repacking for senior year. That by itself wasn’t so remarkable, but I felt a surge of sadness when I sat back onto Abby’s bed and looked at the pictures for the first time. Why hadn’t I missed these? Why had I never thought of that August afternoon on the edge of the Mediterranean, and let that lingering memory spark the recollection of the camera I’d misplaced? I’d never even bothered to miss it. I’d never bothered to appreciate what we had.