"I'm not your secret admirer. I've read the books you recommended, and I enjoyed them, and I think you're wonderful, but—" He stopped. "The letter references. The book choices. I couldn't have written those things because I haven't read half of them yet and I've never had the right kind of attention for…" He gestured, the gesture of a man indicating a category he understood he didn't belong to. "I wanted you to know. Because you deserve to know."
"Right," she said. Her voice came out steadier than she'd expected.
"I'm sorry," Oliver said. "I know this is…I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's better to know."
He stood with her for a moment, not filling the silence with anything, which was one of Oliver's better qualities and for which she was grateful right now. Then he put his hand briefly on her arm—not invasive, just present, the touch of a friend—and stepped back.
"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think whoever has been writing to you is someone who should make himself know. My life definitely has been improved by knowing and speaking with you face to face. I'm not sure if I hope you find him if he wants to keep hiding from you"
He walked back toward the street. Wren watched him go. She stood there a few moments longer, letting the news settle.
She looked back to where her brother and her… her Freddie had been. Neither were there.
The warmth she had felt watching him earlier was still there. It was still there despite the conversation she'd just had, despite the letter that was now misdelivered, despite the fact that she had just discovered she did not know as much as she thought she knew about anything.
