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I hate myself for writing you this letter, Oliver. I’ve tried so hard to solve this on my own, to move on and be strong, but to no avail. Riley gently encouraged me to start putting my words down. She says it will help me turn the page. She’s the one who picked me up at the airport when I got back. She was rooting for us so badly. I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much in front of my sister. Poor thing didn’t know how to console me.

Did I dream our story? Did I make it more than it really was? For the first time in my life, I thought I’d found a best friend and a love that transcended all reason and space. Not only someone who understood me but who truly saw the person I longed to be.

I gave you my trust. I gave you my heart. I gave you my soul.

I should have known better. I won’t make that mistake twice.

Since you’ve never written back to me, I don’t hold out much hope that you’ll take the time to reply, nor do I necessarily want you to. Maybe you won’t even open the envelope when you see my handwriting, or maybe Emile won’t deliver it. Was that a lie too? Does the French mailman really exist, or did you make him up?

What does it matter anyway?

All that’s left is to wish you a good life. In my dreams, we lived it together. In my dreams, we met, and everything finally made sense. Everything clicked into place. In my dreams, you didn’t break my heart. No, you held it in the palm of your hand like the most precious prize on this miserable earth.

I wish I could say I wish you the best, Oliver, but I’m not there yet.

But I can say without a shadow of a doubt that I loved you. And I wish you had loved me too.

Goodbye,

Charlee

Chapter Twenty-Five

MOON

Charlee

For the rest of the evening, Lola’s words echoed in my head like a song I couldn’t get rid of.

After managing to unscrew my feet from the floor of Oliver’s workshop, I joined the group in the kitchen as if nothing had happened. Lola was all smiles, and when I came in, she threw a gentle, understanding look my way without anyone else noticing. Only Oliver paused as I walked past Lola and James to sit in one of the living room chairs. There were no hard feelings between Lola and me. I held none, and I knew she didn’t either. And yet her words kept running over and over in my mind.

Dinner was a relaxed and cozy affair. Everyone sat around the table and shared the wonderful meal Oliver prepared. Something stirred in me when I saw him look so comfortable, so laid-back, with one leg crossed over the other, his arm draped over my seat as he tilted his head back and laughed openly at something James said. So at ease that he didn’t shy away from my gaze when I caught him quietly looking at me as Matt was telling us all about the flock of fifty-something women who kept strolling past his stall at the weekly Pine Falls Farmers’ market, batting their eyelashes at him, not minding that their husbands were a few feet behind them.

I have no intention of letting that feeling go.

Yet I couldn’t shake the incessant need to talk to him. I needed to talk to him now.

So when, around ten p.m., Lola not so subtly hinted that she and the guys needed to leave us alone, I almost breathed a sigh of relief that was heard across town.

“It was nice meeting you, Charlee,” Matt says, bringing me into a hug. “Take good care of him, okay?”

I nod, swallowing down the emotions I feel at Matt’s approval, and say goodbye to Lola and James.

“I’ll walk you guys out,” Oliver says before turning to me. “I’ll be right back.”

And I understand what he’s not saying. That even if we’re tired, even if it would probably be better to wait until tomorrow, we’re having this conversation tonight.

I pick up the glass of wine Oliver poured for me during dinner and walk around the living room using one crutch. I’ve never seen a house with so many bookshelves. Even here, the walls are literally lined with dozens and dozens of books on wooden shelves that are reminiscent of the stunning beams that decorate the ceiling. Has he read them all? How many hours has he spent stretched out on his couch by the fire, dreaming of imaginary worlds?

I could get used to being here, I think. Reading, enjoying the peace and quiet of his house, watching the rain fall outside through the big windows of his bedroom while I take a nice, hot bath. And why not have him find me like this one evening when he comes home from work? I wouldn’t mind.

My thoughts are interrupted by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I put my glass down on one of the shelves and fish my phone out. I roll my eyes when I see the name.

“I thought I told you I wasn’t reachable for two weeks.”

“And yet here you are, on the phone with me,” my sister says. “I just wanted to check in, see how you were.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”