18. Kai #4
There is something almost laughable about pretending this restores any ethical balance to what I have already done.
I watched her without permission first, I crossed the boundary before I offered her control over it.
Nothing in this letter changes that. Still, the sentence matters to me and, more importantly, I suspect it will matter to her.
I fold the paper, slide it into the black envelope and press the red wax seal into place.
For a moment, I stood there looking at it.
It is still light outside. That alone should be enough to make me wait.
Julia lives on a quiet residential street where people notice unfamiliar cars, motorcycles and men lingering near houses they have no obvious reason to approach.
Mrs. Pritchard could be outside or one of the neighbors could be walking a dog.
Julia herself could already be home. I put the envelope inside my jacket anyway.
Apparently patience, which was one of my charming personality traits, has become another casualty of this entire situation.
My ZX10R carries me toward her neighborhood while the sensible part of my brain provides a running commentary I don’t particularly need.
Leaving an anonymous letter on a patient’s doorstep is already indefensible.
Doing it before nightfall simply adds stupidity to the list. None of that makes me turn around because I want to know what she’ll do.
That is the only explanation that matters by the time I reach her street.
Her car isn’t in the driveway, which makes this marginally less reckless, although not enough to deserve credit.
I park farther away and walk the rest, keeping my pace unhurried as I approach the house.
The neighborhood is still very much awake.
Somewhere nearby, a garage door rumbles closed.
A woman farther down the street is pulling a garbage bin toward the side of her house, and a dog barks behind one of the fences before being called inside.
I feel spectacularly conspicuous. Still, I keep walking.
Julia’s porch is empty when I reach it. I take the envelope from inside my jacket and place it against the bottom of her door, angled so she’ll see it the moment she comes home.
Little Ember.
The name looks almost too intimate sitting there in daylight. I force myself away before I can stare at it any longer and retreat toward the trees. This time, I don’t leave. The whole point of coming early was to know. Not simply whether she reads it, but whether she answers.
Daylight fades gradually around the street while I wait.
Porch lights begin appearing between houses, cars return from work and the windows around me start glowing as people settle into their evenings.
Julia’s house remains dark. I start wondering whether she’ll be late, and the fact that the thought irritates me is ridiculous enough that I nearly laugh.
Then headlights turn onto the street. I know her car immediately.
She pulls into the driveway, gathers her bag and a small grocery sack from the passenger seat and starts toward the porch.
I know she notices the envelope before she reaches the steps by the way her pace slows.
Then she looks toward the trees. Toward me.
Something hot and deeply satisfied moves through me.
She can’t see me, but she knows where I might be now.
Julia picks up the envelope and disappears inside.
Lights come on through the house while I stay where I am.
She moves through the kitchen first, puts away whatever she brought home and eventually disappears from view.
I have no idea whether she has opened the letter.
Waiting for that answer turns out to be considerably harder than writing the damn thing.
Darkness settles fully around the house and she appears in the living room with the black envelope in her hand.
She sits on the couch and begins reading.
Distance steals the smaller details from me, but I can see the way she grows still.
When she finishes, she stays that way for a long moment.
Then her head lifts, her eyes go to the window.
This time, she isn’t searching because of an unexplained feeling she doesn’t trust. This time she knows.
Julia gets up and crosses the room toward the lamp beside the couch.
My entire body tightens when her hand reaches toward it.
If she turns it off, I leave. There is no argument to have with myself about that.
I gave her a way to tell me no, and if she uses it, tonight ends here.
I can see her fingers hover near the switch.
For several seconds, nothing happens. Then her hand drops and so does my stomach because she just gave me the answer.
I hang my head and pull my hands out of my pockets. That’s it. She said her peace.
I lift my head to turn around and walk back towards my bike when I catch it.
The sight of her standing in the warm pool of light around her, watching through the window to where I’m standing.
The lamp is on. For tonight, that is enough.
Ghost settles beneath my skin with a satisfaction I don’t bother denying.
Good girl.