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I don’t want to lose her. Not again.

Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair and push against the tears that knot in my throat, but it’s too late. They roll down my cheeks, drying instantly with the wind.

I can’t lose her. I need to tell her. Tell her why I never showed up five years ago. Why I’m racked with guilt and shame and grief. The project is done now, and she can’t hide behind that professional pretense any longer. I gave her what she wanted. Now it’s my turn to be selfish. She needs to hear the truth now. Hear me.

And maybe she won’t forgive me, maybe she won’t even understand, and maybe it will all have been for nothing, and she’ll leave anyway.

But I can’t leave it to fate.

She needs to know.

With a resolute stride, I head back inside the house, bags and crutches in hand. But when I walk through the doorway and see that Charlee has taken off her sweater and is wearing only a black top, grunting and stretching with one hand on her lower back, my big speech vanishes.

Instead, I say, “What’s going on?”

She jumps. “Jesus. I didn’t hear you come in. It’s nothing I’m just . . .” She rubs her back. “I think I’ve been putting more weight on my right leg, and my back’s a little sore because of it.”

“I can help,” I say a bit hoarsely.

She frowns. “How?”

“I could . . . massage you if you’d like.”

She holds my gaze without flinching. “You’re good with your hands?”

“I like to believe I am.”

She grabs the crutches from my hands. “Then lead the way.”

Toronto, April 24, 2018

My Oli,

Please DO NOT poison Emile. He’s too good for this earth. But more importantly, I intend to meet you one day, preferably not from behind plexiglass while you sport an orange jumpsuit.

I love that we both share physical touch as our love language. Things are promising to be . . . electric.

As weird as it may be, as crazy as it might sound, I have feelings for you. So, to answer your question, no. You’re not reading the situation wrong. Although you not being sure of it makes me wonder if I haven’t made things clear enough.

And maybe I should.

Don’t you know the effect you have on me? Don’t you know that I think about you every day and wonder what it would be like to lie next to you? Some nights, when I get ready for bed, I think about you. I take off my clothes and slide under my covers. I close my eyes and picture you here with me, hovering over me. Not putting your full weight on me yet, but just enough that I know you’re here, your arms braced on either side of my face. And then you lean in and kiss me softly at first, your lips brushing mine with a tenderness I’ve never known. But as soon as you get a taste of me, you can’t hold back, and your mouth turns hungry, desperate to get as close as possible. You coax my mouth open, and I willingly let you in, our tongues meeting in delicious sweeps that make me feral for more.

I imagine that my hand glides the length of your back, but in the reality of my pitch-black room, it travels down my breasts, past my navel, to where I need you most. I open my legs and slide a finger along my slit, pretending that it’s you who’s touching me. You take such good care of me, Oliver, that your name falls from my lips, even if you’re not here. So meticulous, so detail-oriented. You stroke me, your attention focused on my pleasure, before you push one of your fingers inside me. I moan at the sensation, already feeling so full when you haven’t given me what I crave the most just yet. You work your finger in and out, and my need coats it as you keep your maddening tempo. And when it’s slippery enough, you add a second, and I moan your name again.

How many times have I moaned your name, Oli, while I touched myself these past few months? I can’t recall. I’ve lost count.

I imagine that I slip one of my hands into your unbuckled jeans and wrap it around the smooth skin of your cock. I imagine you fumbling in one of my nightstand drawers for a condom just like I do to get my magic wand out. I grab it like I grip your cock and start rubbing it on my clit. My—your—fingers that were inside me trail their way up to my breast and pinch my nipple, toppling me into another galaxy. I cry out your name as my orgasm rolls over me in waves, and you’re here, with me, watching me come down from the high you just gave me as if it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

Did I make it clearer for you now?

I don’t know how college works in BC and if our schedules are widely different, but college is ending soon over here. How about we meet in Calgary? Let’s say June 21st? Then we could spend the weekend together.

Exchanging our numbers would be the reasonable thing to do, but I can’t help feeling like it would ruin the mystery of this whole letter exchange we’ve kept up for the entire year. How about we figure out the flight logistics and then decide on a time when we can meet at the airport, at the arrival terminal? I already know what I’ll be wearing, because it’s literally the only dress I own: it’s a steel-blue satin midi dress with quite a plunge between my breasts and thin straps on my shoulders. Can’t miss it!

Oh, and let’s give each other some leeway in case our flights are late or something. And if anything happens (which it won’t), we can still write to each other afterward. Sound good to you?

With love,