“Why?”
“You’re taking the first flight to New York. Grab your credit card.”
So I’m booked on the 7:35 a.m. flight to LaGuardia tomorrow. I am packed and ready for action.
That’s a complete lie. I’m scared witless. But I’m so tired of fear—all forms, all kinds. I want to be free. I want to be Scrooge. I want to lay it all down in one moment and feel joy—weightless, bubbling joy. I don’t want to be first—
That’s it, Mr. Knightley! I’m so stupid, so blind. That’s how Scrooge did it. He realized that others were more important than he was. Scrooge laid it all down because he didn’t need to be first. He finally saw more outside of himself. All those years he hoarded vapor—meaningless security—to protect himself. And he destroyed others in deep and crushing ways. He finally recognized the cost, and that others paid it. Then he saw it clearly . . . And they came first.
I’ve been so busy protecting myself that I didn’t see it. I don’t need protecting. I’m safe, aren’t I? And even if I weren’t—I am not defined by that fear. Just because I like the color yellow doesn’t make these walls any more or less yellow. They simply are yellow. And I’m still standing. I don’t need Alex to tell me that. I don’t need running to show me that. Others don’t need to pay the price as I push and pull to simply confirm what is. I’m okay.
Maybe that’s the first step to surrender. Maybe that’s my first step toward the joy the Muirs talk about all the time. Self-protection keeps you from love, Mr. Knightley—all love. I am so sad at how I’ve kept them at a distance—the Muirs, Alex, Father John, Kyle, Hannah . . . anyone and everyone who has ever stood by me. I played God in our relationships. I determined their value and their worth by how much I let them in, by how much I let them determine my worth. I’m not God. And I don’t need to work so hard anymore . . .
I love Alex—plain and simple. I love Alex, and I want him to come before me. I don’t care what it costs. Giving him the truth and fixing the hurts I’ve caused is more important than anything I think, feel, own, expect . . . No matter what happens between us, I can free us from these lies. I can be honest.
So, Mr. Knightley, here is the part where I need you. I figured this one out before I realized all this other stuff—and it still feels right, so I’m going to press on.
We need to meet. We need to meet so I can say thank you and good-bye. Ashley talked about my “hiding places” this morning. You’re one of them. I found sanctuary in these letters, but no more. If I’m going to truly love my new parents, my new friends, and especially Alex, I need to be real. I need to be present.
I want to do this properly, though. I want to be brave and show you the respect you deserve. I want to thank you in person. Father John gave me your foundation’s e-mail for this letter. It was like squeezing a state secret out of him, but you need this tomorrow. And it doesn’t violate our agreement, Mr. Knightley. That ended with graduation. I am asking you to do this as a friend, as someone I have come to trust and rely upon. So please, Mr. Knightley, e-mail me when and where we can meet. Please let me say good-bye properly.
And, Mr. Knightley, forget my theory about Icarus. If you don’t sail high, with the risk of crashing and burning, do you really live? Can you love? I doubt it. I’m ready to fly.
Love,
Sam
NEW YORK
Sam stepped out of the cab. New York Presbyterian Hospital loomed in front of her, darkened by shadow. The street was packed and noisy, but she heard nothing. She couldn’t drag her eyes from the building. With all the people bustling in and out, only two men mattered—two men in all of New York. First Alex. Then Mr. Knightley. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. No e-mail.
Start with Alex. One step at a time.
The noise of the cab pulling away penetrated her fog.
I can do this. Just be honest.
“Ms. Moore?”
“Yes?” Sam turned toward the door, searching.
A petite woman stepped forward from under the awning. She had straight blond hair, cut neatly below the chin, and looked chic in her black slacks and crisp black wool coat. She smiled and stretched out her hand. “I’m Laura Temper. Mr. Knightley asked me to meet you and escort you upstairs.”
“He’shere?” Sam put her hand to her throat.
“Yes.”
“Oh . . . I . . .” She shook her head and pulled her shoulders back in an effort to gain courage. “I’m pleased to meet you, Laura. Thank you for all you’ve done for me these past couple years.” Sam thrust out her hand, willing her voice to sound approachable and friendly. But she couldn’t separate her mind from her mission. “Did he . . . ? Did Mr. Knightley show you my letters?”
“He did not.” Laura turned and gestured toward the revolving door. “Shall we?”
Sam followed.
The older woman’s heels made staccato taps on the stone floor. She offered no conversation, and Sam’s thoughts skittered in cadence with theclick, click, click.
Did Mr. Knightley meet Alex? What’s been said? I feel sick. I should’ve eaten . . .
The ride to the sixth floor was over too quickly. The elevator opened onto a small lobby, and straight ahead Sam saw the Muirs standing in close, tense conversation. The professor was visibly upset.
