“You kind of are,” she says. “He’s the soldier off in the war. You’re the wife character pining away at home, hoping her husband will make it back in time for Christmas. He writes you letters. You write him back. It’s all very poetic.”
I stick my tongue out at her even though it’s childish. Writing these letters has been like meeting a whole different version of Patrick. In his letters, he’s clear and precise. He always worried about his way with words, but his words, in these letters, have been having their way with me. At night, I lie in bed, holding them tight to my chest, inhaling the cinnamony scent that somehow clings to the pages even after traveling such a distance. An unmatched intimacy stirs some— “Oh, God. You’re right.”
“I always am,” she says. “And now for my thing. My mom and Noah, as a Hanukkah gift, have agreed to pay the adoption fees for me to bring home a second dog.”
“Oh, that’s awesome.” She’s been talking about this forever.
“Luca needs a friend, and I think I’ve found the perfect one.” On her phone, she has an adoption site pulled up. The page features the smiling face of a two-year-old golden retriever named Milo. “Isn’t that the handsomest dog face you’ve ever seen? His family had to give him up because they’re moving overseas for work and their housing is no-pets-allowed. I called the adoption agency to see if he was still there, and he is, but apparently, he’s so sweet and friendly that there’s already a lot of interest in him. The woman on the phone said if I was serious about him, I have to go tomorrow.”
“No worries if you can’t help me hang the Christmas lights then,” I say, already rearranging my schedule in my head.
“Actually, I was sort of hoping you would come with me,” she says.
“V, you know I’m not good with dogs.”
“I know, but my mom and Noah won’t make it home and to the shelter in time before they close, and I just thought since you’ve been conquering your fears…”
“This is a different kind of fear,” I say.
“You’re good with Luca.”
“Because I know Luca.”
“You’ll get to know Milo, too!” She’s smiling at me insistently. “Please, Quinn. It would mean a lot to me.”
Veronica has been fiercely there for me these past months. This is the least I can do to repay her kindness and friendship, so I relent before telling her to head inside without me.
On a bench near the double doors, I take a breath and read Patrick’s words.
Dearest Quinn,
I knew December here would be busy. I just didn’t know HOW busy. I imagine this is what it’s like to work on Wall Street or atVogue. High-octane, high-energy, all day.
I don’t know how we’re going to hit our goals by Christmas. With disruptions and wacky magic, it’s been a trip. But a rewarding trip.
I’m exhausted but writing to you always perks me up.
It’s weird, isn’t it? That we’re writing to each other like this?
I sort of love it. I never realized how cute your handwriting is before. It’s loopy yet neat, large but never invades on the other lines. It’s so uniquely you. Sometimes, I catch myself tracing your letters, imagining that I’m tracing the length of your jaw and the dimple in your chin.
God, I want to kiss you, Quinn.
I know I shouldn’t say that since we’re separated, but I do. Every day that goes by without you only makes the want grow stronger. One day, someday very soon, the want is going to become aneed.
Trust me when I say, I’m working hard to figure out a way back to you.
Will you do me a favor?
If you’re willing to, hang a dollop of mistletoe above the fireplace.
I promise, once I figure this all out, I will land the sleigh on the roof of our house (careful not to disrupt any of the new shingles I saw you had replaced), slide down our chimney, and meet you there.
You’re not selfish for wanting more years for us, Quinn. I want them, too.
No, that want has already become aneed.
My love always,
