by Amelia Wilde
A few more beats of silence passed.
Then: “Yeah.”
“It’s over,” I repeated, hoping he would get the message and leave me to try to repair the giant rent in my heart.
He paused again before speaking, and I continued to wipe away the tears that kept streaming down my face. I choked down a big sob and started to count down from ten. When I reached one, it occurred to me he might not actually be there anymore. He was finally gone. The thought utterly and completely broke my heart.
“Brandon?” I asked, my voice small in the unlit room.
“We’ll see,” he said and hung up.
42
Some people wallow when they have a broken heart. They turn into Bella Swan and self-implode for several months until they forget the color of the guy’s eyes or the exact tone of the girl’s voice. Then they meet someone else who helps them forget a little more, and eventually, they return to the land of the living.
Others, like me, drown themselves in work instead. In fact, the degree to which my heart was broken tended to directly correlate to the amount of effort I invested into other aspects of my life. There’s nothing like a breakup to jumpstart personal ambition.
Considering I’d never had a broken heart like this before, it figured that I finished the semester third in my graduating class. I had also been putting in extra time at FLS, so when Kieran asked me to wait a few minutes on my last day, I figured it would be good news.
“So, I wanted to talk to you about where you’re planning to work after graduation,” Kieran said in her characteristically blunt manner. I had come to understand her abrasive manner was really just a way of cutting through the bullshit, and I appreciated it instead of being intimidated by it. “Have you decided where you’ll be?” she asked.
I sat back in my chair after straightening the files I was leaving for the summer interns, due to start on Monday. “Well, I’ve been offered a position with the Brooklyn D.A.’s office,” I said. “I have until Monday to decide.”
Kieran nodded. “Good, good. Well, you’ll have one more offer to consider along with that. I’ve been authorized to offer you a position at my firm as well. Junior associate, full benefits, with full pay while you study for the bar.”
I gaped. Kiefer Knightly was the other big full-service firm in Boston. It devoted fifteen percent of its practice to pro-bono cases—much more than the typical five percent offered by most firms—and recruited heavily from the Ivy League. Usually, it made offers to its second-year interns. The fact that Kieran had gone out of her way to procure me a position meant a lot. I’d be able to do the kind of advocacy work I liked while making about twice the salary the D.A. could offer. On top of that, I’d be able to work with someone I truly considered a mentor.
But. There was Dad, who was slowly recovering, but obviously looked forward to having me close again. There was Bubbe, who needed help keeping my dad in line. And there were, of course, other reasons to get out of Boston. Tall reasons. Blue-eyed reasons. Reasons that still crept into my thoughts after more than five weeks and woke me up in the middle of the night with dreams I could swear were real.
“Can I think about it?” I asked.
Kieran raised a thin eyebrow. “Really? I assumed you’d jump at the opportunity. There’s no firm like us, you know.”
I nodded in agreement. “I know. It’s just…well, I was planning on moving back to New York. My family is there, and I think they miss me.”
It was a feeble excuse, but I couldn’t tell her the real reason I was thinking of leaving Boston. Kieran was the last woman who would run away from any man, I was sure of it. She was friends with Brandon, but also his attorney. I had no idea what she thought personally of our situation, and I couldn’t risk her thinking I was anything but professional.
She nodded sympathetically. “I hear you. But, Skylar? Promise me you’ll think about it, all right? New York’s only a few hours away. You’ll still be able to visit your family.”
Hesitantly, I agreed. After all, Boston was a big city. A few more months, and maybe one of these days I’d finally forget the man who seemed to be woven into every brick building, every sidewalk. I bent my head down to finish organizing the last few files, ignoring the fact that I could still picture a pair of sky-blue eyes with perfect clarity, and the deep tenor of his voice echoed through my dreams almost every night.
I was the second to last student in my Family Law seminar to finish the final exam. With one click, I uploaded my test and closed my laptop with both elation and a twinge of sorrow. This was my last exam, my last act as a student. Graduation was on Monday, and between now and then I had to choose a job, pack up my apartment, and find a new place to live.
I never expected to leave Harvard feeling more overwhelmed than when I started, but here I was.
“You going to come to Cleo’s?” Eric knocked me out of my worries as he followed me out of the classroom. “A bunch of us are going to celebrate.”
I smiled. I had intended to work my troubles out at the pool, but maybe a drink was more in order.
Because Eric had taken one of the lucrative positions at Sterling Grove, he talked nonstop about his plans there as we made our way across campus to the bar. He had a few weeks off to rest, but would start a bar exam class at the end of May. I sighed. Just another thing to figure out, depending on which state I’d be living in.
“So, have you decided yet?” Eric asked as we joined the students from our class who had colonized a back corner of the bar. We waved to a few of them, but took seats at a big booth that was mostly full of coats and book bags.
I shook my head while I dropped my bag in the corner of the booth and removed my jacket. “No. I still have no fucking clue what I’m going to do.”
“Is it just your family that’s pulling you back to New York?” Eric poured us both a pint of cheap beer from the pitcher in the middle of the table.
“No,” I admitted as I accepted a glass. “There are other factors too.” Eric gave me a knowing look, and I glared. “It’s not what you think.”
He chuckled. “Whatever you say, Crosby. But come on, you’re not exactly Lady Justice. I know you like working with women and everything, but the Brooklyn D.A.’s office? That’s going to be intense. It won’t be anything like FLS. You’d be happier at Kiefer Knightly, where you can be choosier and make better money too.”
I sighed. He wasn’t wrong. But someone else was Kiefer Knightly’s biggest client. Someone I was trying—and failing—to put out of my mind.
“Hey, kids.”
I turned to find Jane joining our small group. She took a cozy seat next to one of the kids from our seminar, and he wrapped his arm around her in a way that indicated they were a lot more than just casual classmates. As I watched them, I envied her. Jane never made any commitments in Boston, especially since she had planned to move back to Chicago the whole time. She had fun, and as much of it as she wanted, no apologies to anyone. Ever.
I took a long sip of beer. Maybe taking a page out of Jane’s playbook wouldn’t be such a bad idea. A few short-term flings might be the perfect antidote for Brandon Sterling.
As if my thoughts telegraphed his name directly to Jane’s brain, she looked up from her man of the hour and pulled a small box and an envelope from her purse.
“Here,” she said with a knowing look, handing the packages across the table to me. “It was on our mat this morning.”
I took the envelope and box with a sigh and set them down on the table in front of me. The envelopes had been coming every day since Brandon had realized I wasn’t going to take any of his calls. Surprisingly, he hadn’t shown up anywhere he knew I would be, and after a few weeks, I had stopped expecting to find him leaning against the entrance to the law school, FLS, or my apartment building.
But every day for nearly the last five weeks, a simple white envelope had been delivered to the doormat outside of my apartment. The only address was my name, written in bold, direct print across the
front. And inside each and every one was a letter, handwritten on legal paper, in which Brandon poured his heart out in the way of stories about himself.
The first one had made his case plainly:
Skylar,
I thought about sending flowers. I thought about sending gifts. I thought about kidnapping you to a deserted island where you’d be forced to talk to me, and I could eventually win you back with my wit and charm.
But you said you didn’t want any of that shit; you said you wanted to know me. So, I’m going to tell you about me, as best I can, all the stuff that I would have had the chance to share with you on dates, in bed, over the normal amount of time we should have together. I don’t know what I did to mess up. Maybe it was the divorce. Maybe it was school. Maybe you were telling the truth, although I can’t shake the feeling that there is something more. But if you won’t tell me what changed between our last night together and the following morning, so be it.
So. this is me, and if I have to write you an encyclopedia a month for the rest of my life, I’ll make you fall in love with me again. I know I can be that man for you, Skylar. If you’ll let me.
I love you. Always.
Do you love me yet, Red?
B
They varied in length after that, from one page up to fifteen at the longest, each bearing a story of who he was. Memories of his childhood, good and bad. The feeling he had when he stepped into his first seminar at MIT. How he started his company. The one time he went looking for his mother again. When he found out she had died. The moment he knew he wasn’t in love with Miranda. How he felt when he married her anyway.
Some were easy and light, and others were incredibly difficult to read. But I read them all—I couldn’t help it. And every one ended the exact same way:
I love you. Always.
Do you love me yet, Red?
B
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Kyra, a girl from our seminar who was also Eric’s latest target, pointed her beer bottle at the package. “What did you get?”
I set the letter aside and picked up the box—the first of its type. Slowly, I lifted open the small, white lid and found a bracelet sitting on a tuft of linen.
It wasn’t a Tiffany box, and the bracelet looked nothing like anything you’d find there. It was a sturdy, simple, sterling silver cuff, about an inch wide and solid through. It bore the obvious impressions of hand pounding across the top, but when I picked it up, I noticed that the inside had been polished smooth to bear an inscription:
“One man loved the pilgrim soul in you,” I read aloud softly.
I gulped. Somehow, I didn’t think the bar would be the best place to subject myself to Brandon’s latest letter.
“Nice,” Eric said as he nodded at the bracelet. “Yeats.”
I looked back down at the inscription and back up with confusion. “I don’t know it.”
Eric closed his eyes and recited the poem:
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
When Eric opened his eyes, the entire table had gone silent, and everyone was staring. Kyra looked like she was ready to devour him alive, and Jane’s mouth was open.
Eric looked around and shrugged. “English major. I wrote my honors thesis on Yeats.”
He took a long slug from his beer, and the conversations around the table erupted again. Kyra turned to Eric with obvious mooneyes, which he studiously ignored. Well, if he wasn’t getting any before, he certainly would be later.
“So, Crosby, who’s the dreamer?” he asked, nodding at the bracelet.
I looked down at the gleaming silver. Yeah, there was no way I was going to be able to read the latest installment of “Brandon Sterling Reveals His Soul” without tears after listening to that poem. Pilgrim soul indeed.
“It’s no one,” I said quickly, tipping back the rest of my beer and reaching for the pitcher.
Eric watched with amusement, knowing I wasn’t usually given to binge drinking cheap beer. “No?” he asked. “It’s not a certain Beacon Street dweller who—”
“It’s no one,” I repeated sharply, cutting Eric off.
I quickly poured another half pint down my throat. Jane gave me a sympathetic smile from the end of the table; she knew she’d likely be getting me a cab at the end of the night. I picked up the empty jewelry box and started to stow the bracelet along with the letter, but I stopped as the inner inscription caught my eye again. My head was already swimming with too much cheap alcohol, and for once, I didn’t want to push away my feelings. Giving myself permission not to think about it too much, I picked up the cuff and slipped it on before tucking the box into my bag.
I ignored Jane’s gaze at my wrist as I beckoned the waitress to the table.
“Another round on me?” I asked my friends, and with jovial assent, the bracelet and its origins were quickly forgotten.
Jane and her “classmate” dropped me off in a taxi at our building after I reassured her at least five times that I was fine. She kept looking pointedly at my wrist and asking again, but I finally convinced her that maybe it would be better for me to read the stupid letter by myself this time. Half-soaked with cheap beer and tequila shots, I had a feeling the letter would make me cry—really ugly cry—and I preferred to do that sort of thing alone.
I plodded out of the elevator on our floor more than a little tipsy for the three more beers and two shots I’d enjoyed at the bar, and found myself disappointed yet again that Brandon wasn’t leaning against my door. It was strange to admit that for the last five weeks, I’d been hoping to find him stalking me. I’d checked every lamp post, every stupid doorway twice before leaving classroom buildings, T-stops, even the library. But he was never anywhere to be found. Only his letters.
“Phantom,” I muttered as I forced my keys into the lock.
Once inside, I immediately dug around the cupboards for the bottle of McCallan 18 I kept for special occasions and poured myself two fingers’ worth. This was the first piece of jewelry I’d ever accepted from a man, so it deserved a celebratory drink, right?
I brought the drink and the letter into my bedroom and made myself comfortable against my pillows. After taking a healthy sip of the scotch, I ripped open the envelope.
Dear Skylar,
Today is your last day of classes, and on Monday you’ll finish school. You’ll be studying for the bar (sorry about that), but essentially, you’re on the precipice. I remember that feeling. It’s exhilarating, a combination of the knowledge of your own accomplishments paired with the thrill of moving on to the next chapter, the next dream of your life.
When I graduated law school, my dreams were all business. I dreamed of building a legacy to which I could attach my name. I dreamed of my own building, my own staff, my own investments. I had a new kind of freedom I’d never had before—the power to be my own voice. But by that point I was already married to a woman I didn’t love—couldn’t love––and then we found out we would not be able to have the family we thought we wanted. Eventually, my dreams were only in the head, not the heart.
Then I met you, and my heart started to beat again. I could imagine a different kind of future. I saw us together, married, maybe raising a family or traveling the world. Pursuing our careers and coming home to each other. Growing old together.
It’s been over a month. I thought at first that time would make my heart disappear aga
in. Instead, being without you has only made me understand just how much you changed me. Now I understand how much I am truly capable of loving. I still dream that you might let me love you again. For now, I’m content to wait.
This will be the last letter. You deserve to pursue your dreams on your own without being chased. But should you ever want to share those dreams with me again, Red, I’ll be here. Because my heart doesn’t exist without you.
Do you love me yet, Red?
I’ll wait. Because I’ll always love you.
B
I stared at the letter through tear-glossed eyes, afraid to move for fear it would unleash a tidal explosion of weeping.
“Damn,” I whispered. “Oh, damn.”
With a final gulp of the rest of my scotch, I pushed myself up and stumbled back to the kitchen. Almost violently, I dug through my bag for my phone. Once I found it, I quickly scrolled to Brandon’s contact and pressed dial before I could talk myself out of it.
His deep voice answered on the second ring.
“Skylar?”
I tried not to thrill at the obvious excitement in his voice, but it was useless. The kitchen light caught on my new bracelet, and my heart quaked at the words I knew were inscribed next to my wrist.
“Hey,” I said softly into the phone. “I…ah…” Suddenly I had no idea what to say. “I got your present.”
“Oh.” His voice, though deep, was also soft and tentative. “Did you open it?”
I nodded before I could remember through my whiskey-fog that he couldn’t see me.
“Yes,” I said. “It’s…well, I’m wearing it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“It was made by a friend of Susan’s,” Brandon said. “She’s a local silversmith. I gave her a loan a while back to help her start a business.”