Chapter 4: Photo Book
The fire in the hearth crackled and popped, casting a dancing, orange light across the deep brown leather of the oversized couch. It was Friday night, and the house had settled into a comfortable, post-dinner lethargy. The scent of woodsmoke and the faint, clean aroma of Angel’s lavender-scented fabric softener hung in the air.
Alexandra sprawled across one end of the couch, her bare feet propped on the oak coffee table, a well-thumbed copy of a woodworking magazine open on her lap. Angel was curled into her side, a bundle of softness in a cream-colored cashmere sweater and leggings, his long white curls spilling over Alexandra’s shoulder as he scrolled through a tablet, looking at gardening catalogs. The twins occupied the other end, engaged in a silent, intense battle on the large screen—a futuristic cityscape exploding quietly under the tap of their controllers.
“You’re cheating,” Michael muttered, his brow furrowed.
“You’re just bad,” Chris replied, not taking his eyes from the screen.
“Boys, language,” Angel murmured absently, zooming in on a photo of a rare black dahlia.
Alexandra chuckled, a low rumble in her chest. “They didn’t swear, baby.”
“The intent was there.”
The game ended with a flash of pixelated carnage and a triumphant fanfare from Chris’s side. Michael groaned and tossed his controller onto the cushion beside him. “I need a drink. Or a distraction. Something.”
“There’s a box of your old baby clothes in the attic I’ve been meaning to sort,” Angel offered sweetly.
Michael shot him a withering look. “Pass. Hard pass.”
Chris stood, stretching his arms over his head until his spine gave a satisfying pop. “I’m gonna grab a beer. Anyone else?”
“I’ll take one,” Alexandra said.
“Papa?”
“Just water for me, please, sweetheart.”
Chris padded out toward the kitchen. Michael remained slumped on the couch, his eyes roaming the room. They landed on the towering bookshelf that stood beside the fireplace. It was a chaotic monument to the family’s life: sports trophies, framed photos of the twins at various ages, a few well-loved novels, and rows of action figures still in their packaging. His gaze drifted to the very top shelf, a domain usually ignored, home to dust and forgotten things.
“Hey, Papa,” Michael said, pointing. “What’s in the big black album up there? The one with the weird, shiny pattern.”
Angel glanced up, following Michael’s finger. A soft, puzzled frown touched his lips. “Oh. That. I’m not entirely sure. It might be from before you were born. Maybe some old photos from when your mother and I first got the house. I haven’t looked at it in… decades, honestly.”
The word ‘decades’ sparked Michael’s interest. He was on his feet in an instant. “Can I get it down?”
“If you’re careful, and if you dust it off outside,” Angel said, already fussing. “It’ll be filthy.”
Michael, with his height and reach, needed no stool. He carefully lifted the heavy, faux-alligator skin album from its perch, blowing a cloud of grey dust from its cover. He coughed, waving a hand. “Christ, it’s a fossil.”
He carried it to the large, plush rug in front of the fire and sat down cross-legged. Chris returned, two cold beers in hand, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”
“Prehistoric artifact,” Michael said, wiping the cover with the hem of his T-shirt. The shiny, leopard-print pattern, faded with time, became slightly more visible. “Papa’s not sure.”
Alexandra peered over the top of her magazine. “Leopard print? That’s my taste. Hand it here.”
“Let’s just open it,” Michael said, his curiosity winning out. He lifted the heavy cardboard cover. The first page held a protective sheet of crinkling plastic. Beneath it was a standard 4x6 photograph, its colors slightly muted with age.
The room went still.
It was a picture of a nightclub, or a very wild house party. The lighting was dim and red, the air hazy with what was probably cigarette smoke. In the center of the frame, leaning against a sticky-looking bar, was Angel.
But an Angel they had never seen.
His hair, just as long and curly, was a shocking, platinum blonde, straightened within an inch of its life. He was wearing a microscopic, hot pink halter top that barely contained his chest, and low-rise jeans so tight they looked painted on. A sliver of toned, smooth stomach was visible, leading down to a silver belt buckle. On his feet were chunky, platform sandals. He was looking at the camera with a smirk, a confidence that was both alien and utterly captivating. One hand held a colorful cocktail, the other was perched on a hip.
“Holy shit,” Chris breathed, sinking down onto the rug beside his brother, his beer forgotten.
Michael was speechless, his mouth slightly agape.
Angel made a small, choked sound from the couch. “Oh, my. I’d forgotten about that one.”
Alexandra set her magazine aside slowly, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across her face. “I remember that night. That top. Fuck. I think I tore it off you with my teeth later.”
“Alex,” Angel whispered, burying his face in her shoulder, but he was peeking back at the album.
“Don’t ‘Alex’ me, look at you. You were a fucking vision.” Her voice was thick with memory and pride.
Michael turned the page. Another party. This time, Angel was dancing, a blur of motion in a metallic silver tank top and those same low-rise jeans, a whale tail—a thin, lime-green thong strap—peeking defiantly over the waistband.
“A whale tail!” Michael crowed, pointing. “No way!”
“It was the fashion,” Angel mumbled, his voice muffled by Alexandra’s sweater.
“You were the fashion, baby,” Alexandra corrected, her hand stroking his hair. “You stopped traffic. And not just car traffic.”
Chris turned the next few pages. Each photo was a punch. Angel at a beach bonfire in a sheer black mesh cover-up over a tiger-print bikini. Angel dressed in a tight, baby-blue velour tracksuit, posing with a flip phone. Angel in a club bathroom mirror, wearing a denim mini-skirt so short it was essentially a belt, and a white crop top that said “PRINCESS” in glittering pink letters.
The twins were utterly mesmerized. This wasn’t just their sweet, soft-spoken father. This was a person of devastating, audacious sexual energy. The shyness was absent; in its place was a playful, knowing dominance over the camera’s gaze.
“You were… hot,” Chris finally said, the word inadequate but the only one that fit.
“Is,” Alexandra growled. “Is. Don’t use the past tense. He’s just packaged differently now.”
Michael turned to a page that made him laugh out loud. It was a photo of Alexandra and Angel together. Alexandra, her hair shorter but still in a similar style, looked almost the same—muscular, confident, wearing tight black jeans and a leather vest with no shirt underneath. She had her arm slung possessively around Angel’s shoulders. Angel was wearing a Cheetah-print bandana tied around his neck, oversized sunglasses, and a tight white tank top that left nothing to the imagination.
“You two looked like you ran the whole city,” Michael said, awe in his voice.
“We did, in a way,” Alexandra said, her eyes distant. “Our little corner of it, anyway.”
Chris pointed to a photo tucked in the corner. It was a quieter image. Angel in what looked like their own kitchen, but younger, making coffee. He was wearing only a long, oversized tee-shirt that slipped off one shoulder. His hair was a mess of white curls, his face soft and free of makeup. He looked… exactly like himself. The self they knew.
“That’s more like it,” Chris said softly.
Angel finally lifted his head, looking at the photo Chris indicated. A gentle smile touched his lips. “That was a Sunday morning. Your mother was still asleep.”
The album progressed. The parties faded. There were pictures of them painting rooms in the house, Angel in baggy paint-splattered overalls. Then, a sudden, profound shift.
A photo of Angel, his blonde hair grown out with white roots showing, in a simple, flowing sundress. He was sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, his hand resting on a very pronounced, round swell beneath the fabric of the dress. His expression was serene, introspective, a world away from the club smirk.
The twins fell silent. They knew this part of the story, in theory. But seeing it was different.
“That’s me,” Chris said, his voice hushed.
“Or me,” Michael added.
“It’s both of you,” Angel said, his voice clear and strong now. He untangled himself from Alexandra and came to sit on the rug with his sons. He smelled like cashmere and lavender. He pointed a slender finger at the photo. “That was about seven months. You were both so active. It felt like a soccer match in there.”
He turned the page himself. A hospital photo. Angel, looking exhausted but radiant, his hair a cloud of white curls around his head, holding two impossibly small, swaddled bundles. Alexandra was in the frame, her head resting on Angel’s shoulder, her eyes red but fierce with joy. She looked like she could fight a bear, and win.
Then, the photos changed entirely. The leopard-print album gave way to pictures of two bald babies, then toddlers, then gangly kids. The background was this house, this room. The fashion was replaced by spit-up stains and superhero costumes. The last photo in the album was of Chris and Michael, maybe age ten, covered in mud and grinning, standing in front of a lopsided treehouse.
The journey was complete.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The fire crackled. The weight of the album, of the lived history in its pages, was immense.
Michael broke the silence. “Papa… you were a total babe. A stone-cold fox.”
Angel laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “It was a different time. I had a lot of energy.”
“You’ve still got it,” Chris said, looking from the photo of the cheetah-print-clad party god to the soft, beautiful man beside him. “It’s just… directed differently now.”
“Less for the public,” Alexandra said from the couch. She was watching them, her expression uncharacteristically soft. “More for me. And for you two. That’s the trade-off. And it’s a damn good one.”
Angel leaned against Chris’s solid shoulder. “I loved that time. It was fun. I felt powerful in a certain way. But this,” he said, gesturing around the fire-lit room, at his grown sons, at the woman on the couch, “this feels more powerful. This is real. That was… costume. Even if it was a very fun costume.”
“You don’t miss it?” Michael asked, genuinely curious.
Angel thought for a moment. “I miss the spontaneity sometimes. I don’t miss the blisters from those platform shoes. Or the hangovers.” He smiled. “I have everything I wanted from that time right here. The attention of the person who matters. A family.”
Alexandra swung her legs off the couch and joined them on the rug, her movements fluid and powerful. She pulled the album into her lap, flipping back to the first photo, the hot pink halter top. She traced the edge of the picture with a calloused finger. “You know what the sexiest thing about this is?” she asked her sons.
“What?” Michael asked.
“He chose this.” She tapped the photo. “All of it. The clothes, the hair, the look. It was his. His expression. His power.” She looked at Angel, her gaze burning. “And then he chose to grow his hair out natural. He chose to wear sweaters that feel like clouds. He chose to carry you two. He chooses, every day, to be exactly who he is. That’s the fucking magic. Not the skirt length. The choice.”
The truth of it settled over them. The album wasn’t a relic of a lost person; it was a map of the same person, evolving, choosing, becoming.
Chris took the album and closed it gently, the leopard-print cover a stark contrast to the domestic peace of the room. “Thanks for showing us.”
“You found it,” Angel said, leaning over to kiss Chris’s temple, then Michael’s. “And you didn’t run screaming. So, thank you.”
Michael grinned, his bravado returning. “Are you kidding? This is the best blackmail material ever. If you ever try to make us sort attic boxes, the world sees Cheetah-Print Papa.”
Angel’s eyes went wide with mock horror. “You wouldn’t.”
“He would,” Alexandra said, lying back on the rug and stretching like a great cat. “But I’ve got worse on him. It’s a stalemate.”
They stayed there on the floor, the fire warming their backs, the ghost of a younger, louder Angel smiling from the closed album on the rug. It wasn’t a haunting. It was an inclusion. Another member of the family, welcomed back into the fold.
Later, after the boys had gone upstairs, the album was placed on the coffee table. Alexandra pulled Angel to his feet and held him close, swaying slightly in the firelight.
“You know,” she murmured into his hair, “seeing those pictures… it makes me want to go buy you a micro-skirt.”
Angel laughed, wrapping his arms around her neck. “I don’t think it would fit the same way.”
“I don’t care. I’d just like to see it on the floor of our bedroom again.” Her hands slid down his back, possessive and sure. “My fierce, gorgeous husband. Then and now.”
“It’s always been for you,” he whispered. “Even when I was performing for a room, I was waiting for you to look at me.”
“I always saw you,” she said, her voice raw. “I see you now.”
She kissed him, deep and slow, a kiss that tasted of red wine and woodsmoke and two decades of chosen, unwavering desire. Upstairs, the thump of music began from the twins’ rooms—two different rhythms, coexisting. The house was full, layered with the past and the present, all of it real, all of it theirs.