She didn’t tell me she knew him. She must have kept it secret for a reason. This photo shows her in a different light, she’s a different person; perhaps he made her feel better than I do now.

“How do you know him?” I glare into her eyes, challenging her for the correct answer.

She rubs her nose. Something I’ve noticed she does when she feels uncomfortable. “He’s a friend from years ago.” Shes crosses her leg then uncrosses it.

“How close were you?” My elbows dig into my knees a little deeper, my chin firmly positioned on top of my hands. I just want her to tell me, to confirm what I already know.

She lets out a nervous giggle. “I haven’t gone there with him, if that’s what you’re asking!”

Then why has he sent me this photo? Why can’t I get the image of her all over him out of my head, imagining exactly how close they were to each other. Did she wear the same perfume back then? Did he tickle the back of her neck? Is that why she likes it when I do that?

Mandy stands from the chair opposite me, her thumbnails clicking against eachother. She’s wearing a frown that doesn’t suit her normally innocent face. “Why don’t you ask him how he knows me?”

I lean back, taken off guard by her assertiveness. Maybe I’ve got this wrong. Maybe I’m jumping to conclusions. But something still doesn’t feel right.