A deep, warm chuckle from our front porch fills the silence. My lungs stop working. There’s only one man who laughs like that. I dart up the stone path, ignoring my heels in the cracks, to find Jonah settled into one of the chairs, his legs splayed, his arms lying casually on the rests. As if it’s not cold out. “How do you know which one’s which?” he asks casually. “The white patch above Tim’s eyes is wider,” I mumble, still trying to process this. Jonah’s here. Jonah’s in Toronto.
