At first, I consider ripping the thing open right here but on second thought, Charlotte could very well be eyeing me from her window and I’d rather not having another conversation about this anonymous woman.
The moment I step inside, a little out of breath from excitement and jogging up the driveway, I tear the side of the envelope off and pull the note out.
Dear Hunter,
I can’t do this any longer. Her heart aches for you every time I send you a letter. Guilt fills my soul and covers me like a heavy blanket I can’t seem to find my way out of. I know I’m not responsible for taking her life but I feel like I’m keeping her alive for you and at the same time holding this heart hostage for the sake of yours.
I’ve debated over the last couple of weeks whether or not this is the right decision, but I think it is.
I asked the doctors to keep my information anonymous because I didn’t think I would have it in me to face the family who so unfortunately lost this very heart I protect so dearly. With realization of the unfairness in this situation, given you have not been offered the choice to remain anonymous, I feel I should unveil my identity to offer you proper closure. These letters aren’t fair to either one of us, and I have been selfish in pretending they are.
I’d like to request that you meet me at the Borderline Grill for dinner tonight at seven. I realize it is short notice and I know you have to find care for Olive, but if I don’t do this now, I may never find the courage to do it again.
I understand if this is too much to ask or if you don’t wish to meet with me. In any case, I appreciate your consideration.
Best,
Her Heart
My hands are shaking as I reread the latter part of the letter over and over again. I’m not sure I follow her thought process or what she’s feeling. Does she want to meet so she can move on? These letters have been a connection I have needed over the past five years and the thought of not receiving any more makes my stomach hurt. Have I been misleading myself, giving in to a fictional relationship? I have considered the possibility of this being a side effect of completely losing my mind, but I avoid those thoughts, too.
I can’t ask Charlotte to watch Olive tonight. I’d have to explain why and I don’t want to do the whole lying bit with how well things have been going between us. Even if I tried to explain this to her, she would tell me she understands, but I know better. I’ve been around women long enough to know this will never make any sense to her. In any other situation, I would never do something as sleazy as hide a secret meeting with a woman, but she is the keeper of Ellie’s heart, and that makes her a more than an ordinary woman, and it makes this a less than ordinary situation.
I slip my phone out of my back pocket and thumb in a message.
Me: Could you watch Olive for a couple of hours tonight?
Mom: Of course. Is everything okay?
Without allowing those three little thinking dots to appear for more than a couple of seconds, I respond:
Me: Yes, I have a client meeting tonight. It was a last minute proposal.
Mom: That’s wonderful, honey. What time would you like me there? I can make her dinner if you’d like.
Me: That would be great. Six?
Mom: I’ll see you then, sweetie.
Lying to her doesn’t seem as bad as lying to Charlotte, I guess.
Almost losing track of time completely, I hear the door slam across the street and I see Charlotte making her way down the driveway toward the bus stop. Stepping outside, I catch her attention, as she looks surprised to see me. “I thought you would still be at the site,” she says, shivering against the cold.
“We finished early and I ran home for a few.” It only takes a few seconds to realize how cold it actually is out. “Should we take a car down there?”
“It’s okay, I could use a walk,” she says, her words muffled against her gloved fists.
“Everything okay?” Meaning, what’s wrong? Something’s wrong. There’s no smile on her face. There was no hello kiss. Going through the motions of falling back into another relationship, I’ve come to learn her mannerisms pretty well over the last few weeks. One of the things I like about her is that she won’t tell me “nothing” if something is wrong. She’ll tell me exactly what’s wrong, but not until I ask.
“I saw a woman drop something into your mailbox today. She wasn’t a mail carrier. Is it her? The woman who has Ellie’s heart?”
“What?” I know what. I’m using the word as a placeholder until I figure out what to say. “Do you know who she was?” I’ve never wanted and not wanted the answer so badly before.
“Doyouknow who she is?” Charlotte retorts, firing my own question right back at me. If I knew who she was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
“No,” I tell her.
“Well, did you check your mailbox?” she asks.
