Lorri Oliver built Amorous from scratch at sixty — a restaurant on a Connecticut Main Street with a back-bar full of jazz records and a red leather booth she didn’t yet know what to do with.

Then a man from 1981 found her on Classmates.com, drove forty miles through a November snowstorm, and arrived at the host stand holding a burgundy yearbook against his chest like something precious.

They spent ninety minutes in that booth. They kissed between pages. His hand rested on her chest, above everything, and she felt her own heartbeat underneath his palm.

She drove home to Middlebury in the snow. She went to bed. She woke up the next morning and thought one word.

More.

Not more of him. More of this. More of being alive in her body. More of discovering that the woman she’d become had not, in fact, stopped wanting to be touched.

The Yearbook is where it begins.