Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
ELLIS
I’m not sure how many times I read the letter over the meal break. Enough times to absentmindedly eat the entire box of scones, at least. When it’s time to get back to work, I stand up with an overfilled gut and an even heavier feeling everywhere else.
I go through the lines enough to memorize parts of it, I guess, because pieces of it play in a mental loop the rest of the day. So much of it was her. That unapologetic humor, the rapid-fire stream of consciousness unraveling across the page. The way I could hear the anxiety in her words, even the demanding ones. So much was glaringly unfamiliar, too, between not recognizing the handwriting, down to the Dear Stranger .
I guess that must be what we really are to each other now.
Throughout the day, I swear the letter gets warmer against my chest. I take it out time and time again until all the edges feel soft. I start asking everyone if they’ve heard anything about this story. Some have but don’t know any more information or if the horses were found or not.
At the end of the day, after I’ve just asked another captain the same set of questions, Kirby slides into the pickup truck alongside me and asks, “Does this have anything to do with that letter you keep looking at?”
I blow out a heavy breath. Must not have been sly taking it out so much earlier. “Mind your business, Kirby.”
“My cousin was working the other side of the fire when that all went down. I remember seeing the news clip, too. I’ll call him for you.”
Well, now I feel like a prick. “Oh. Uh… thanks. Appreciate it.” I turn toward the kid and find her sporting something smug.
“My first name is Lennon, by the way,” she says. “And don’t wait on my cousin before you write the lady back. Just tell her you’re working on her answers.”
I snort, but I’m curious. “Why would I waste her time? I’ll just wait until I have the info to share.” And I don’t intend to write her back, either way. I’ll get her the answer she needs, though. And then I’ll text her or call her and let her know. Maybe we can have an awkward laugh over her letter ending up in my hands.
“So it is a lady, then?” Kirby asks.
“I—yeah, so?”
“ Oh , I love this!” she squeals. “I mean, I knew it had to be for a variety of reasons. The way you were holding it, mainly. The yearning stares. That slightly desperate way you were asking everyone for answers. There’s something so intimate about words on paper, inked by someone’s hand, isn’t there? And I assume you’re straight just by your generally emotionally constipated vibe?”
“What? Yeah, but—”
“Knew it!” She belts a laugh. “God, I’m good. Oh, please, please, please start a pen pal situation! I had a Canadian boyfriend-slash-pen-pal when I was younger. It was the best.” She pouts at the windshield. “Come to think of it, maybe that’s why none of my real-life relationships have panned out. They fail to reach the level of intimacy some thirteen-year-old Quebecois and I achieved despite never meeting.”
After several perplexed beats, I let out a strangled sigh. “Whatever. I’m not writing her back without an answer.” I turn on the truck and start the drive.
Kirby tsks me and shakes her head in the corner of my eye. “Forgive me, sir. But when’s the last time you were waiting on an important text?” she says.
I frown. I cannot remember a single time, actually.
She sees the answer in my expression and adds, “That’s what I thought. Even waiting on a text back makes a microwave minute seem short. If this woman went out of her way to write a letter, she’s already been waiting for a reply for minimum two days. And just like good text etiquette, you should at least respond and let that person know you’re busy or you’ll get back to them ASAP, et cetera. It takes the edge off.”
I change my mind about her reminding me of Silas. Lennon now reminds me of Sage. The overly observant and gregarious younger sister.
“So you’re telling me it’s the polite thing to do? Writing back?” And not just an excuse for me to communicate with her, under false pretenses.
She nods jovially. “Yep. I’m saying it’s the polite thing to do.”
Well, then. I have to consider that, right?
The longer I consider it on the drive, though, the more I know I can’t do it. I’ll just have to text her when I get back to my room.
I trudge over to the elevator at the hotel, too tired to hit up the vending machine or the restaurant with the rest of the crew, then drag myself into my room. I take out the letter when I sit at the desk, turning on the light so I can read it again… then jolt when my phone promptly rings. Another pulse of anxiety hits me when I see that it’s Sage. I answer quickly before my brain starts catastrophizing.
“Sage?” Not sure why I sound guilty to my own ears.
“Ellis, hi,” she says cheerfully.
I feel my shoulders ease. “Everything all right?” I ask nonetheless.
She lets out a small laugh. “Yes. Yeah. More than all right, actually. Fisher and Indy are back.”
The joy is so sudden and alien that I turn to scowl at myself in the mirror across from me. I tamp it back down with wariness. “For… another visit?” I ask.
“For good , Ell,” she says in a laugh, and I let out a sigh. A force of habit; the parental-branded questions that flit through my head next. Where are they going to live? Where is he going to work? Are you staying protective of that too-generous heart of yours? I know they’re both adults, but I’m not so sure that him moving in with Sage too quickly would be wise.
What do I know, though? I’m no success story. I decide not to ruin the moment with the third degree.
“I’m glad, Sage. Happy for you,” I tell her instead.
“Thank you, Ell,” she softly replies. “Umm, so… that’s also why I wanted to call and ask if you might, like, just give me a heads-up call before you come by? I know Bud’s due for new shoes soon, and I know you don’t normally have to call—of course you don’t—you know I love having you swing by anytime, but…”
I rarely call before I come over to take care of my and Wren’s horse, but it’s not like I expect her to entertain me when I go over there. Sage took Bud in after the divorce so he could be on neutral ground for Wren and me, but he’s still our responsibility. It takes a minute for my brain to make sense of the request.
I groan when it eventually does. “ Jesus , Sage. You worried I’ll catch you… with your boyfriend?”
“We were separated for more than two months. Let me live. I’m only thinking of you.”
We both laugh, even if mine is a little pained. We’ve been through too much together to get too embarrassed of these things. In the background, I hear Fisher’s muffled voice say something like, “ Here, try this. ”
“No problem, kid,” I tell her. “Have fun.”
“Fisher made cioppino,” she says in her smiling voice again. “And thanks, Elly. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
The moment I hang up the phone, loneliness overwhelms me. I am so happy and relieved, and so fucking miserable.
I’ve tried to stop missing Wren. I’ve tried so hard to respect her space, to make it so we could get through raising our son without hurting each other anymore. But I’ve been fracturing for months. Like time has been a flimsy dam while everything has only seemed to build, and it’s all starting to give. All the people who once needed me don’t anymore. Or won’t soon. And I almost lost Silas. Almost failed. Fuck, I wince when I remember seeing Wren come around the corner at the hospital. I don’t know how long I’d been awake at that point, I just knew I had to wait for Sage to get there so I could be strong for her, to hold on tight to all the edges of myself for my sister and brother. But then I saw Wren’s face soon after, those wild blond curls and warm chocolate eyes, and it was like—like seeing home after decades away. Like falling into bed after sleeping on hard ground for years, and I… I fucking lost it. I miss her. I miss her. I—
Shit.
No. I can’t. I have no right to miss her. We’ve established safe, liminal spaces that allow us to stay separate and contained. No messes, no added hurt. We’ve had to maintain that for our son.
I physically feel myself start to compartmentalize and zip everything back into place.
I’ll write her back, I decide. I know her and know she won’t be able to let this go, not with the soft spot she has where horses are concerned. I’ll do the polite thing that Kirby suggested, and I’ll simply get her the information she needs in the meantime. Actually, this is safest, anyway. She doesn’t even need to know it’s me. As far as she’ll be concerned, we’ll still be separate and contained.
I reach for the pad of paper on the desk and dig a pencil out of my pack, too. I don’t know how most people write in pen. I rarely get shit right the first time and would love to use an eraser on more than words.
And then I start my reply.
Dear Stranger, I say. I’ll only respond in kind to everything she’s put in her letter, but I draw the line at calling her by the wrong name.
First, thank you for the scones. I’m happy to report that I apparently have excellent taste, since they were delicious. As far as your inquiry, I’m sorry I don’t have an answer readily available, but I will get you one as soon as I can. (Especially since you didn’t put any pressure on it or anything.)
For the record, you’d be surprised at how many miracles I see out here, even amid all the devastation. Oftentimes, there’s no explaining the things we come across. I’ve found an unscathed chicken coop in a scorched field before. A perfectly preserved garden in the middle of some charred earth. A pair of newborn fawns huddled together, totally healthy and untouched under a pile of burnt wood. I think it’s okay to hold out hope that they’re still alive. Hope doesn’t have the power to cancel out worry, anyway.
Sincerely,
I debate how to sign it. I want to use something covert like she has, but also lends some sort of clue, too, for whatever reason I can’t fathom. I eventually whittle it down to
—L
My stomach lurches with a growl as soon as I’m finished, and in a fit of desperation, I add,
P.S. I conduct my best research under the influence of chocolate.
For the return address, I put the name of the hotel and the room number under “Guest L,” since it’s the extended stay that I’ve reserved for the next month through the mutual aid group. It’s not as if they’d give her my name if she called into the hotel, anyway.
I should probably stop and take an assessment of everything I feel again, contemplate how a box of scones and memories have me hungrier and lonelier than ever.
Instead, I collect a stamp from the front desk and ask them to have it sent, hands trembling and heart galloping when I walk away.