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So I track down a stack of the books they'd been reading.

Werewolves.

Bears.

Dragons.

And, because I remember the one that made her particularly curious, the one about a Jersey Devil cowboy and a second chance love story, I find a couple more from the same author about actual Jersey Devils.

I have them delivered to her apartment.

Not rare editions.

Not signed collectibles.

Nothing obscenely expensive that might feel like I'm trying to buy my way back into her good graces.

Just something to make her smile. Something that says I remember.

The card is simple.

Hey Firecracker, I thought you might like these for the next book club meeting.

Still miss you.

Yours,

Mitchell

Then, underneath it, I add:

P.S.

No contract. No conditions. No expectations.

And because I'm still me, I add:

P.S.S. Though I remain deeply concerned about the diagrams.

Nothing. She doesn’t answer. But I picture her reading that last line.

And hope like hell she laughs.

The next day, I send nothing.

Because I don't want every gesture to become pressure.

I text her instead.

Me:

I love you.

Then I stare at the screen.

Fuck.

Maybe that should've been more ceremonious.