“It could be a coincidence,” I mutter to myself, my eyes going to the front door.
It’s already closed and I know Arden is already safe inside. Part of me doesn’t want to drive away, not now that I suspect.
But could I have gotten the memory of those words wrong? Flashes of the words I’ve been gifted over the last year start to filter through my mind. It only makes me wonder more.
When I pull away, I do it reluctantly, but I need to see the letters. Maybe they’ll confirm my greatest hope. Or my greatest fear?
There was a moment today when I had a chance to kiss her. And I didn’t do it.
I’m almost frantic by the time I get home, and I take the stairs two at a time to get to my room. My hands shake as I reach for my bedside table drawer and I freeze. The last thing, the very fucking last thing I want to do is be too rough. Not with these letters.
I stand up straight and let my hands drop to my sides. As I shake them out, I take a few deep breaths. It helps now just like it helps when I’m about to do something reckless or when something is out of my control. Both things happen a lot out here while we’re working; that’s just the way it is.
But if you don’t feel it, then you’ve been doing it too damn long.
At least, that’s what Dad would tell me.
He still felt it.
The jangle, he called it. Maybe, I do too. It seems fitting. Feels about right.
I sit down on the edge of my bed with my eyes locked on the drawer. “It’s not like there’s a rattlesnake in there.”
But I also already know what I’m going to find.
There’s still a tremor in my hand as I open the drawer. When I pull out the first letter, it’s right there.
Dear Cowboy,
Happy birthday.
I wanted to start with birthday wishes. I’m sure far too many people forgot today is your birthday and, if they said anything it was probably Happy Valentine’s Day. It’s easy for birthdays to be swept under the rug on days like today.
So, it deserves to be said again—Happy birthday.
I read it again.
It’s easy for birthdays to be swept under the rug on days like today.
It’s still the same.
Then I read through the letters again, piecing together the Arden in them, the open woman with big dreams and small hopes. The one who feels like her legacy is a burden which helps her understand why I might feel the same.
The one who described sadness and feelings like they were the lens through which to see me better, to understand me. Even though the reality is I haven’t acknowledged those feelings in a long time. Because acknowledging them feels like confrontation when you don’t like what you see. Or how you feel.
The one who gave me a lesson on Valentine’s Day ahead of time so it doesn’t conflict with my birthday. A birthday that means something because of her.
And I’ve been looking forward to those birthday wishes. She promised.
There are so many words not written in her letters, but so much shared at the same time. I try to see her in the words, but it’s not easy.
When I pack up the letters again, I do it with careful touches and gentle fingers. As I slide the drawer closed, I’m not sure where to go from here. It’s her. I know it.
But she hasn’t told me. It stings more than it should.
I’m not sure whether it’s the right thing to do or not, but I’m grabbing my hat and striding toward my truck before I can second guess myself.
I’m pulling up to the Watts farmhouse in minutes. When I get to the door, I bang on it with much more force than necessary. I hear something deeper in the house, and I’m tempted to knock again, but I stop myself.
