I sigh. ‘I just don’t know if now is the time, Hen. I don’t know if I can do it.’
‘Don’t you think you’re going to say that about every guy you meet? Who shows that they might like you, in a serious way? Whoyoulike?’
I bite my lip, considering the question. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m doomed to push away every man I meet.
‘Youcando it,’ she presses. ‘Elliot will say yes. I know he will.’
‘What makes you so sure?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know if I can trust anyone with my heart yet, until I’m absolutelycertainthey’ll look after it, you know? It’s a delicate instrument and I’d hate to tear it in half.’
A funny expression crosses her face. ‘What if you could be certain?’ she asks quietly.
‘What do you mean?’
She fiddles with a strand of her hair, looking guilty. ‘I have committed a great sin, Nora.’
I frown. ‘What have you done?’
‘I felt like I shouldn’t show you this, but I have now decided it’s for the greater good.’ She whips her phone out of her pocket. ‘So perhaps karma will forgive me. This feels like an atrocity against the sanctity of Ransom.’
I blink. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
She taps her phone screen a few times before turning to me again. ‘When we were running around to look for a Queen Ego related note, I saw this on the wall and felt compelled to take a picture as evidence. Just in case. I couldn’t actually take it off the wall because that felt like a step too far. But, still… behold.’
I have no idea what to expect when I look at the photo. It’s a little blurry and dark, but the subject is clear enough. A yellow post-it surrounded by a dozen others, stuck on one of the walls in Ransom. The wishes around the edges all beginning with the familiar sight ofI want.
I want, I want, I want.
But what is written on this post-it note isn’t a sentence at all, but two words in a rushed, messy scrawl:
Nora Hartley
40
Isqueeze my eyes shut, then open them back up to focus on the words. I wonder if they might vanish, but they’re still there. Black ink on yellow paper. The end of theyis smudged, as if he’d written it in haste and rushed to fold it together, sealing in his truth.
I realise that my breath feels uncomfortable and shallow, my lungs thirsty to expand to take in a proper gulp of air.
‘I hate to be the bearer of good news,’ Hennie murmurs. ‘But I think this might be the certainty you’re looking for.’
‘Right,’ I whisper, still staring at the words. Atmyname in ink.
The memory of Elliot writing his post-it rushes to mind. Him writing something so brief I wondered what it could possibly be.
My name, apparently.
‘Right,’ I repeat uselessly.
Hennie stares at me with concern. I try to say something different.
‘It… almost seems wrong to even have this. To see something this vulnerable to someone.’
‘It is your name,’ she says simply. ‘Doesn’t seem that wrong. I’m the sinner here.’
I hesitate, my eyes moving over the photo again with trepidation.
‘Maybe you could exercise a bit of vulnerability in response,’ she suggests. ‘But that’s your choice.’
I nod silently. Confronting the fact that Elliot has confessed some sort of supposed feelings does not inspire me to take any action, or say anything of value. Or, apparently, anything at all.
