Page 67 of In at the Deep End

“That’s if you could find everyone. Some people might say no.”

Owen huffed. “Some might not even be around anymore.”

“Some won’t be, but others will. Can you imagine getting an email saying, ‘Remember that picture you took of me fourteen years ago? I’d like to tell the story behind it.’”

Owen stared at the photographs spread across the rug.

For years they’d simply been boxes. Memories he couldn’t quite bring himself to throw away.

Matt had just seen something else in them. A story.

He reached out and picked up the photograph of the laughing men outside Brighton Pavilion, brushing his thumb over the glossy paper.

“I’d never thought of them like that,” he said in a low voice.

“I know.” He could hear the smile in Matt’s voice.

Owen gazed at the photograph in his hand. He’d never once thought of them as anything more than memories. They’d been moments he’d wanted to keep. People he’d loved. Friends who’d made him laugh.

Proof that after all those years of pretending, he’d finally learned how to live.

He glanced back at Matt. “You really think anyone would want to see them?”

Matt didn’t hesitate. “No.”

Owen gave a rueful smile. “That’s what I thought.”

Matt placed his hand on Owen’s forearm. “I think they’d want to remember them.”

For years Owen had assumed those photographs belonged to another version of himself—a man who’d spent three frantic years trying to outrun his past before finally finding peace.

Matt hadn’t focused on the man running. He’d seen a generation, a community, a life that deserved to be remembered.

Owen gazed at the photograph once more before returning it to the pile. “I’ll think about it.”

Silence settled between them, comfortable rather than awkward. After a moment, he clapped his hands together and stretched. “Right. If we spend all day looking at photographs, your dissertation won’t get written and my garden will still look like it belongs to the previous owner.”

Matt laughed as he stood. “I thought you were paying me to dig holes.”

“I am.”

“So why do I keep ending up unpacking your life instead?”

Owen paused. “Good question.” One that neither of them seemed in any hurry to answer. “Come on. Let’s leave the past where it belongs for a few hours.” He inclined his head towards the patio doors. “Your spade awaits.”

Matt snorted. “You’ll be cracking a whip next.”

Owen grinned. “I would… if I knew which box I’d packed it in.” Matt’s eyes widened, and Owen burst out laughing. “Relax. That was a joke. I don’t even own one.”

Matt rubbed the back of his neck once more. “I’m never going to know when you’re winding me up, am I?” Then he laughed. “You know, you’re a lot cheekier than Dad led me to believe.”

Owen put a hand to his chest in mock offence. “Oh, then I’m doing something wrong.” He flashed Matt a grin. “I have a reputation to protect.”

They stepped out onto the patio. Matt rolled his eyes. “Excuse me while I go and put on my trainers. I hate soil between my toes.” He headed towards the lounge window.

Owen watched him, the sunlight catching in his hair briefly before he disappeared into shade.

It was funny how life worked out. He’d hired a gardener, and somehow he’d ended up with company instead.