held it up and looked at her own face in it. Her serious brown eyes. Her freckles. The little scar on her chin from when she fell off her bike at six.
“Look again,” she read out loud, from the back.
She turned the mirror around and looked at herself one more time.
Then she smiled at her reflection. A small, uncertain smile. The kind you give somebody you’re just starting to like.
“Okay,” Ava said. “I’m looking.”
The full-length mirror is still in Max’s apartment. The one with the oak frame and the dovetail corners and the seven words carved at the top. Ava says it’s in his bedroom, just like he said. She says he never covered it up.
I think about that sometimes.
About Max standing in front of that mirror every morning. About the question he once asked me, carved into wood by a man who
