“Goodbye, Alex.”
For the second time, I leave Alex outside my hotel, not looking back. This time, though, it feels just like I knew it would. Devastating.
39
Alexander
Ifeelhollow.Ifthere were any doubt I’d truly fallen for Ivy, it’s gone now. I wouldn’t feel this way about someone who was only a passing interest.
I’m not sure of Ivy’s exact itinerary, but I would imagine they are in Scotland by now. Part of me wants to drive up there and somehow find her. I got in the car three times yesterday, but never left the garage. If I got her to a place where she was wanting—even eager—to try to make something work, only to have her go back to her old doubts, I don’t think I could bring her back.
I got a text from Mr. Crawley with what just so happened to be my final riddle, as I was watching Ivy walk into her hotel. I didn’t look at it until this morning. It was an easy one. Ithink Aunt Agnes had lost steam once she got to the end. She’d sent me to the little theatre where I had played inA Christmas Carol. I went after breakfast, took the photo, sent it, and went straight home, where I got back in bed.
I didn’t stay there long. It was useless. I proceeded to stare out the bedroom window at the overcast day. Everything was so grey and dull. It seemed fitting. I looked up the weather in Edinburgh, and it seems the weather is very similarly colored there today. I wonder if Ivy has drawn the same connection with the color and her feelings. Or maybe her feelings are more bright blue skies.
For some reason, though, I feel like she is likely as overcast as I am.
Now I’m standing in the solicitor's office, waiting to be called in.
“Mr. Crawley will see you now,” the seemingly ancient woman at the front desk informs me.
I walk down the short hall and step into his office.
“Afternoon, Mr. Henry.” He stands from his high-backed brown leather chair and walks toward a bookshelf.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Crawley.”
“Have a seat,” he says, jovially, as he pulls a large box from the top shelf. He brings it over and sets it in my lap. “Your box. You’ve earned it.”
He circles back to his desk while I open the box. It’snotfilled with sandwich wrappers, nor was it any sort of joke. It’s filled with old letters, what appears to be a series of journals and my grandfather's pocket watch. In the bottom, there are newspapers and some official-looking documents.
“Thank you,” I tell the solicitor, then sigh. “I’m glad I came and did this.” I’d been having very contrary feelings all morning. If I hadn’t come, I wouldn’t be feeling like my heart has been ripped out and thrown to the dogs. I’d been plagued by memories of her all evening and into the night. I’d taken a turn in mum’s garden to get fresh air, only to see the ivy. I’d looked to the sky, only to have the constellations there remind me of the ones on her lovely face. I couldn’t sit in the family room where we had watched that movie, and I certainly couldn’t go to the pool.
Still, knowing what I know now, I’d do it again in a heartbeat. I told her when I suggested we pretend, that it would be worth a try, even if it didn’t work out.
My feelings oscillate on whether that was true. Even so, I would do it again. I fear, though, she has ruined me for anyone else.
I have everything spread out on the dining room table when an idea strikes. This is my screenplay. This is what I want to donext. I have one more contracted film, but once I’ve fulfilled that obligation, I want to write about what I have here.
The box details my grandfather’s time in World War II. He wrote about everywhere he went, and everything he did, with such great detail that, as I read, it feels like I’m living it alongside him. Every time he mentions writing, or receiving, a letter to my grandmother, I’m able to find the dated letter in the box. I see how my grandfather often downplayed the danger he was in, and my grandmother’s encouragement, through what was obviously a difficult time for her as well. She’d taken a job at the old toy factory, repurposed in wartime to build tank engine components.
I spend hours reading the contents of the box, looking up events further in the book I purchased at the secondhand bookshop. Ivy’s book had been in the bag with mine, and that set me back for a few minutes, but I compartmentalized and saved that sadness for another time. There was too much to look through, too much to think about and plan.
Before I am, once again, tempted to chase after Ivy, I text my assistant and ask him to arrange for my travel home. Or back to California. I now feel oddly confused about where home should be. You win, Aunt Agnes.
40
Ivy
I’mstanding,staringupat a castle on a cliff, and apart from being in Scotland, I have no idea where I am. A cool breeze makes me shiver, the sun’s warmth absent on this dreary day.
“Anizey,” Peter says, tugging on my jacket sleeve. “Do you think people live in there?”
I have no idea, but a quick look, beyond simply staring at the rock walls, gives me the answer. “No, buddy. There isn’t a roof.”
Peter, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice the flatness in my voice, but my sister does. Val moves over to stand beside me and sighs. “Remind me again why you had to leave Alexander.”
“You know why, Val. I don’t want to talk aboutit anymore.” When I got back to the hotel, I did my best to act like everything was fine. I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Everyone could tell something was off with me, though. Even the kids walked around me on eggshells. Val and Micah let me be, thankfully, until we got on the train the next morning and I tried to hole myself up in my compartment. Val wasn’t having that. She said we were going to talk and then I was going to enjoy the trip. We talked, but I wouldn’t say I’m enjoying anything at the moment.
