Page 8 of Left of Forever

“If you shut up, I’ll give you one,” I say with a pointed glare.

She mimes zipping her lips together, and I hand her one of the little cookie sandwiches. She primly takes it and a seat across from me, and I open the envelope, ignoring her groaned (and predictable) “’Oly fuck” when she takes a bite. I already know they’re holy fucking good.

Dear (brazen) Stranger,the letter begins.

What a ride your letter put me on. Here I started out thinking, “Wow, what a polite guy,” (assuming you’re a guy since you didn’t respond to my comment regarding you being a woman), but then you hit me with that shocking little blackmail twist at the end, and it really confirmed it. Now you’ve dangled more hope in front of me while also fishing for more treats. What’s to stop this from becoming a toxic cycle now?! What if I’m some sweet grandmother wringing her hands day and night and toiling away over baked goods? You feel good about taking advantage of me? :)

Something about that smiley face makes me laugh-hum, but then I remember that Lennon is watching me. I school my features into something passive.

In all seriousness, I am very happy that you’re able to find those small miracles. I know too many horror stories from living out here on the West Coast all my life. I’ve seen and heard how fire decimates everything in its path. Frankly, I’ve burned myself too many times on hot things to ever imagine that sort of death. The raw sting of a good burn is enough to give me chills.

A hiccupping feeling contracts in my throat. I know how much she hates getting burned. Tough as nails when it comes to physical pain, she always had a special sort of weak spot for the burns she’d endure in the bakery. I used to buy her every kind of oven mitt whenever I saw one I thought she’d like. Used to know every scar that marred her pretty hands and wrists, too.

I’ve also seen how the devastation can hauntyou all, though. I’ve known a number of first responders in my life. So as long as you keep looking for those small mercies, I will do my best to continue to hold out hope for the horses. (I’ll also hope that it won’t cost me a three-tiered cake or a baked Alaska or something, though. I simply don’t know how I’d transport it to you safely.)

Thank you in advance for any info you find. In the meantime, I’ll still be trolling the local Facebook groups. You’ll be delighted to hear that it seems as if the turbo-turder has found greener lawns to crap on! No reports for the last week!

Still Sincerely Hopeful,

Salem Meridian

I let out a small sigh when I reach the end of the letter. It’s too nice getting to hear—read—her this way again. Her playfulness and that wry, candid wit. It’s so far from the clipped politeness we’ve maintained since we split. It doesn’t help that I can still picture the way she’d say all of it, the way her eyes would pinch sympathetically when she knew I’d seen something awful even though I didn’t want to share, or when I inevitably couldn’t hide my exhaustion.

“You hear anything from your cousin, Kirby?” I ask, eyes still tracing the paper, all the shapes and curves of the words. I look up at the same time she lets out a small snore, the half-eaten treat still on her lap. Christ, the poor kid. She’s maybe ten years younger than I am, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel downright elderly compared to most of my coworkers and crew. By the end of this fire, after she’s inevitably seen family homes destroyed and history lost and an unfathomable amount of ruin, she’ll feel older, too. Thinking about it sends a pang through my chest.

Maybe this is why, after I jostle her awake and take myself back to my room, I decide to write Wren again. I’d told myself I wouldn’t until I knew about the horses, but… but maybe I want to reach for that lightness. Staying anchored to something good is good, right? I might just be too tired to think on it too long.

Dear Stranger,

I won’t pretend it’s easy to find the miracles. Sometimes I have to look really, really hard. Sometimes I get sick of looking for them. Do you ever feel that way? Like you resent that you even have to look sohard for all the good things? Sorry if I’m not making sense. Today was a long, heavy day, and I’m so, so tired. It sounds like the official word is that this was started by arson. It’s hard to see an elementary school reduced to ash and not be angry at how pointlessly cruel humanity can be. A whole town was wiped away, and for what?

Getting a letter from you was the bright spot in my day, Stranger. Hey—guess that’s my small mercy, maybe? I was lucky enough to get your package out of everyone the first time, and now look at us. We’ve got our own little crime ring complete with blackmail, espionage, and of course, most egregiously of all, your fraudulent membership in the online community of local suburbia.

I promise you, treats or not, I’ve got feelers out to everyone all across this fire for them to let me know about the horses if they hear or come across anything. I still promise to share either way, good or bad.

I wanted to ask, though… I was hoping that you might be open to writing to me again while we’re still searching? At over 200k acres and hardly contained, I think I’ll be here for at least another couple of weeks. But… there’s something nice about this. No agenda, just dear strangers finding a little comfort. I promise I’m only perverted when explicitly asked to be.

I understand if you don’t have time. Life is busy and days rarely feel long enough anymore. My sister—

I have to go back and erase the part about Sage. I was planning to talk about her ability to live in the present and how it makes her one of the most accomplished people I’ve ever met. I feel a swift pinch of guilt when I erase it. I don’t want to be deceitful, precisely, but I want to preserve this tenuous thing, whatever it is.

I wrap up the letter with:

Also Hopeful,

-L

Dear L,

I guess this will be our trial run to see what you’re really about, since this letter comes unaccompanied by treats. But I’ll admit that I was also hoping you might want to keep writing. I think this is nice, too. No agenda, I agree. Bold move with that remark about being perverted, though! For all you know, I am that ninety-three-year-old granny who’s hard up and swooning over her fireman calendar each time I write one of these. Maybe I couldn’t figure out Tinder and I’m working up to asking you for a hand-drawn dick pic?! What are you going to do if I call your bluff?!

Wow, I’m actually laughing out loud. It’s a bit strange how easy it is to make these jokes and remarkshere in the unknown. Should we establish some rules to keep it that way? No major details. No real names? (Oops, guess this is where I admit that mine’s been phony the whole time—you can still address it there to avoid confusion.)

We could talk about what’s going on around us. I’ll keep you posted on the latest gossip and unimportant news, and you can share whatever you’re feeling like getting off your chest, too?

Sincerely,

Nosferatu