Page 18 of Left of Forever

“Damn straight, kid,” I say. “An often quirky, sometimes clingy, moody, and weird friend, but one that’ll always have your back.”

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“Can I hug you?” I ask.

She nods, and I lean over and wrap her into an embrace, the way I hope another mother would if she were mine and I was gone. “You can talk to me any time, all right?” I feel her nod into my shoulder.

When she pulls away, she chuckles and quickly wipes at a tear. “I’m gonna go check on Fisher over at Starhopper,” she says, already making her way to the door, and I get it. Too much vulnerability at once can feel embarrassing. “I’ll see you on Thursday?”

“Yeah, I’ll see you on Thursday.”

The bell triggers the memory of the letter in my pocket, so I wait until she’s a safe distance away and go flip around the Closed sign, then slip into my little office in the back of the kitchen. I force myself to wait several beats, as if to prove that I have some semblance of self-control before I tear into it.

Dear Stranger,

I frown, inexplicably disappointed at the loss of a heinous nickname. I already had more picked out to sign off with. “That hair-goop thing clogging the shower drain” was vying for my top contender.

Regarding hopes and dreams—I have to admit that even though I asked you first, I still find that I’m unprepared to answer that question for myself. I can’t remember the last time I hoped and dreamed for more than just the safety and happiness of those around me. Which probably makes me sound like some saint. I’m not. I need that to be very clear. We’ve been honest here, even if we’ve withheld certain things on purpose, and I don’t want to change that now.

As far as dreams go? I want to be connected with my wife again. I want to learn about her dreams and make them come true. I want to love without restraint. I want to say the good things without reservation and not be afraid to say the bad or difficult things, too.

But here’s the truth I’ve been discovering. I’m actually just scared all the fucking time. I’m scared to get things wrong. I’m scared to let people down. I am so scared to fail to the point that it prevents me from acting, let alone taking a risk, or it makes me try to control everything that poses a potential risk around me. I’ve been living and loving in half-measures for years. Living my life in pencil, because I don’t think I can get shit right the first time. Maybe because I think it’ll save me some pain. So far, I’ve been wrong.

All I know is that your letters unlocked something in me again, and your hope for a pair of horses inspired my own sort of hope, too.

In the envelope, you’ll find a picture of Major and Kelpie. They were found about forty-five miles from home, thin and a little worse for wear, but in decent health considering everything. They were still together. Their owners have been beside themselves with relief.

Thank you, dear stranger, for this handful of hope you gave me on a few pieces of flattened trees. You’llprobably never know what it’s meant to me. The fire is over 80 percent contained, so I won’t be headed back, which means that this will be my last letter.

Sincerely Hopeful,

L

Melancholy bleeds through me like an inkblot on fabric, something that starts at a point and seeps wider and wider. I wouldn’t call my feelings for this strangerromantic, but I’ve certainly been romanticizing this thing. Him being married feels… wrong, even though I know it shouldn’t. If there was a flirty tint to these words on paper, no harm was done.

No harm done at all.

Except that the stupid hope they awoke in me has made the ache of loneliness morph into something barbed, and I immediately want it off. I… I think I’d like to meet someone, but I think I need to actuallytryto do it. Not just try to find a warm body—I already know that would be easy and leave me feeling empty.

I look at the picture of the two beautiful horses side by side, having made it through a terrible, exhausting time. My heart trips over itself when I immediately think of Ellis, how we didn’t make it through our own disaster together in the end.

Maybe we had to separate and go our own ways for our survival. It probably made it more difficult for this pair to stay together all the time. Different endurance levels, different needs. What happened to Ellis and me was just… nature. We did what we needed to. We’re not horses, either. We’re humanbeings with obligations and a son who deserved people who weren’t distracted by their resentment for each other and the mountain of responsibilities on our plates.

It’s over and done with.

“You don’t put a burnt cake back in the oven,” I say aloud, an expression coined by my mom. All you can do is take away what you learned and begin again. Agonizing over it only wastes time and prolongs suffering.

But what if it’s not burnt?I think.What if it just didn’t turn out like it was supposed to? Couldn’t you walk through the recipe and figure out where you went wrong—

“Stop,” I say out loud again. I fold up the letter and forcibly regain my composure. No more muttering to myself. No more harping. It’s time to start over.

My touchstone for recalibrating myself has always been my mom, which is probably why I’m compelled to drive over to her place after I close up the bakery. Savannah Meridian is completely indomitable, in spite of her MS diagnosis four years ago. In addition to being a successful business owner (which she started as a single mother to a newborn me) she attends a combination yoga and Pilates class four days a week, paints, voraciously reads, volunteers, and maintains a healthy social calendar.

And for the vast majority of my life, she’s been unshakable. Regardless of whether the bakery had a rough couple of months or if a pipe burst in our house, or if her daughter came home pregnant at seventeen, Mom’s been steadfast at keeping calm and carrying on. When I went to work with her one early Saturday morning all those years ago and burst into tears over my expectant news,she pulled some cinnamon buns out of the oven (because irony) and coolly asked me what I would like to do and how she could support me. It was a year too early, but I recognized that I was an adult right then in her eyes.

I’ve never felt like an extension of her and have always known that I am my own person, which is maybe why joining her side at the bakery didn’t give me any sort of identity crisis. My home was a little lonely and quiet too often, by no one’s fault other than capitalism, really, since Mom had to work, and owning a business meant long hours and limited energy outside of them. But between the Byrds’ house and Savvy Bakes, I could get my fill of noise.

Noise and a pseudo-family. Because while I’ve always adored and looked up to Savannah Meridian, whatever gene it is that makes her perfectly content being alone unfortunately skipped me. I have always needed people more. I’ve always wanted to be needed by them, too.