In His Arms

by Caraway Carter

  I will race the tide to get to my shop and sell to tourists and dwellers alike. I hope you come to the shop for a café and a Madeline, though I do not own the shop just yet.

  Very excited,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  Letter posted online in a journal – brandonsloveltters.blogspot.com

  No emails

  Lovers, I don’t know about you, but I am sitting here shaking, shivering in the lost thoughts of my former lover. We’d had a long talk about life and what we’ve been doing. He is helping me find my dream business. On the drive to Le Mont Saint Michel, there was silence in the car, but there was emotion. I placed my hand on his knee and he covered it. Still silence, until we sat in the car in the parking space.

  I opened the door and stood, waiting for him to leave. He took his time, and stood as well. We were like nervous school boys; it is not as though we haven’t been alone together over the past six years. But it was one of those odd things. The electricity in the air, as he admitted that he knew what B was doing this weekend while we were looking at businesses—I looked at him, tilted my head, trying to figure out what he was saying, what he was suggesting.

  The doors still open behind us, we stood with our arms resting on the roof of the car. He continued to tell me that B was having a fling, like the one we had so many years ago. H’s eyes had that distant, long-pleading look in them. I slowly got the words out, “She’s having an affair?” I told him I was sorry. He nodded and stepped back to shut the door. I followed suit, and we bumped into each other as we made our way to the first of several sites.

  Over the rest of the day, we looked and drove, we laughed and drank too much wine at lunch. When it came time to check in to the hotel, I had arranged for two rooms. I handed him his key and lugged my duffel towards my room. He stood beside me and asked why I got two rooms. I looked into his eyes, smiled and said, “Because I knew I’d probably do something I’d regret.”

  He laughed and turned to the room across the hall.

  Soon, we were standing in the doorway, talking across the hall. I gave him two choices: we could stay standing there, or go out to dinner. He chose the latter, and we had a meal that will go down in memory as the closest I ever came to breaking the lock in my heart. I held fast, more talk about relationships, my failed ones and his constant one, of her cheating, of him finally offering her an out with an open marriage.

  And when I heard open marriage, I had a little angel on one side on of me whispering, don’t do it and the other shouting “DO IT! You know you want to!”

  I listened to the angel, not because I didn’t want to do it, but because I loved him too much to just take him on a rebound from his cheating wife…my cheating sister, hell, my twin. I’m not like that; I couldn’t hurt her, and it would, if it came out.

  I grew calm, stopped drinking wine, and placed my hand on the table. He placed his beside it, and our pinkies touched. He looked up and said, “Nothing’s going to happen, is it?” I shook my head, and we finished our meal.

  He held my hand as we walked, and we kissed a sweet goodnight kiss before exiting into our own rooms.

  I ripped my clothes off, jumped in the ice-cold shower, feeling the sharp sting of the water pelting my skin, and I turned up the heat, little by little, until I couldn’t handle it any longer. I toweled myself off and lay on the bed, imagining him kissing every inch, licking and nibbling and chewing. In my mind, he flipped me over and took me, and I shot over and over. That night, it were as if we were joined together in our mutual masturbations—he called at one point, heavily breathing into my cell phone. I responded and we jerked until we fell asleep.

  Lovers, when it’s right, it’s right. When it’s not meant to be, you masturbate.

  The remaining night was spent masturbating, but this time we forgave dinner and ran to our rooms. I called that night, and we did it again and again. He hung up, and shortly afterward there was a heavy knocking at my door. I cleaned up quickly, pulled up my sweat shorts, and opened the door. He leaned in. A giggle escaped his lips. “Let’s get ice cream.”

  We managed to get a ton of junk food and drove to this random park in Normandy, where we sat and just ate, catching our breath.

  I suggested we try Le Mont Saint Michel in the morning. “The tides are out, and we can run if we are late.”

  The rest of the night was a blur of sugar and laughter. We lay on our backs, looking at the sky, and when the police came to rouse us, they told us we couldn’t be drunk in public. I admitted to only eating tons of sugar, and we giggled back to our car.

  At our doors, we met and kissed an amazing out-of-this-world kiss. Our tongues tangled, and the butterflies raged in my chest. His soft lips landed on my chin and below my ear. My hands pulled him into my body, and I wanted to pull him into my room, but this time he braced his hand on either side of the door jamb. I had tears in my eyes, and it was his turn to shake his head, and say, “Non.

  “When the time is right, Brandon, and the time is not right. It feels like it, but you and I both know this is not our time. A kiss is what we have for now. I will see you in the morning. And I need you to know I’ll be turning off my phone tonight. We need to be respectful tomorrow for Mont Saint Michel.”

  And that was that, as he disappeared into his room, and I slipped into my own for a shower and lots of tears, but I knew he was right.

  He once again pounded on my door, this time it was to get up and head out. I quickly dressed, shoved everything into my duffel, and met him at the door. No kiss, just his back walking to the car.

  And I discovered the place where I’ll be working and living the rest of my life. For now, I’m prepared with it being all by myself, but I know I’ll have Dad and Danielle visiting me.

  Tonight, I write this letter of my life online for the world to discover it—not a letter to be tossed around. It was such an amazing experience I couldn’t bring myself to have it fall on deaf ears and be lost.

  A contented Brandon

  11

  Anniversary Five

  B’s baby died three days before Dad died. It was a terrible week. B&H had flown to America to be there for Dad’s final days. He didn’t make it for Christmas, and she wasn’t due until January. They felt they had the time. We didn’t know if it was the pressure from the flight or what, but she wasn’t feeling well, and they rushed her to the hospital. Baby D was born six months early; she was tiny and not expected to live out the day.

  But, Baby D was a fighter, she held on until everyone was there to see her, until all the aunts and uncles who could make it, did, and those who couldn’t get to the hospital called. R ran down the hallway, just as Dad called. He slid into the room, saw Baby D, who turned to blink her eyes. I held his arm. H slipped his arm around his waist and cried into his little brother’s shoulder. They put the speaker phone down for Dad to say a few words. I’ll see you soon. And then the monitors stopped, and Baby D died.

  I’m sorry for these words, readers… I’m sorry, for this pain. I have lived it over and over in my head and tried to understand why the baby was lost. Why B&H? They wanted her, they craved her, they clung to the hope of Baby D being there for them, and they were going to move to America to let her grow up.

  Three days later, we all stood in the hospital room as Dad succumbed to his cancer. Not as many people showed up, but he was loved. I clung to R, as he and I had been a constant for the days leading up to Dad’s death. It wasn’t anything sexual; it was two guys talking. We ate, drank, and laughed when we weren’t broken up with tears.

  H held my hand a couple of times. He held me tightly the day his baby died. His chest heaved with sobs, and the thoughts in my head weren’t let’s run away, let’s jump in bed, and let’s fuck right here. They were Oh God, I want to take care of you, and you need so much, so much love. And when I didn’t think I could take it anymore, I let go. We stared at each other and smiled.

  I told him I was truly sorry.

&nb
sp; On the last day I was in America, R came on to me. He started unbuttoning my shirt, but I told him I had a plane to catch. I kissed him; it was a long, hot kiss. I was testing to see if anything changed, and I smiled into the kiss when I realized that nothing had. He was my brother-in-law, not anyone I wanted to have sex with, and it would ruin our friendship.

  R met up with me a couple times during the rest of the year, not to hook up, but to enjoy each other’s company. He is a great guy.

  Back in France, I made up my mind to investigate property for my boulangerie—traveling, figuring out prices, looking at old restaurants, looking in papers for places going out of business from the central city on out to the countryside. It was going to be a reality this year. I was setting up shop to become who I’d always wanted to be.

  B contacted me and said she was done; she had set up a date with the gardener. She and H were trying to get pregnant again, but there was no love between them. H worked longer hours than even before they got pregnant. She needed someone to pay attention to her, so she hooked up.

  We laughed about it—I did it mostly for her. She was so nervous and excited about the whole thing. I laughed nervously on the way home, worried about what H would think or do. He’s been a perfect angel for her; I mean, I think he has. I just can’t imagine him having an affair on her. Then again, we never really sat down and talked about it.

  I told B that I would be contacting H about looking for help with purchasing my boulangerie. She thought it would be the perfect time for her date with the hunk. I hate it that she’ll be using our buying trip as a hookup, but it’s in her hands. I’ll ask what he thinks about the situation if I get the chance.

  These letters have become a sort of release, getting it out of my mind. My focus now is getting my business set up and living the life I’ve always wanted to live. I am a lot more careful with the emails, but it has been nice getting to know everyone who has contacted me. Another year down; I’m dedicating this next year to Dad.

  Always,

  Brandon

  brandonsloveletters@gmail.com

  12

  End of Seeking, Beginning of Life

  That morning, Brandon had gone about his daily business. The only difference was he’d be leaving the shop to his employees so he could get the hotel room he hadn’t slept in six years ago. He’d read in the paper the locks were being cut off the bridge, and he still wondered why he was drawn to it. Even after all these years, he’d not been able to remember where the lock was.

  With his arms loaded with fruits and cheeses, Brandon reached for the shop door, only to find a bouquet of flowers and a note. He laid everything on the counter and turned back to the note. Upon the thick cream card was written the name of the café across from the hotel.

  * * *

  Coffee at Noon, Thursday afternoon, please?

  * * *

  Brandon began baking and preparing for the trip out of town. His shop girl, Sasha, arrived, and they switched keys. He borrowed her car and left his apartment key. They hugged and he was gone. He lugged the duffel bag, the flowers under one arm, and the keys in his hand, as he raced the tides to her pink-and-white Fiat. He laughed and wished she’d told him how pink it was.

  Once he was checked into The Ritz, he turned on the water for the tub. When it was full, he stepped into the warm water and lay back, wishing he’d brought a glass of wine as he tried to let the day melt away.

  The thought of wine pulled Brandon from the tub. He tossed everything on the chair near the window, opened the curtains, and stood nude looking out over the city. He knotted the towel around his waist and grabbed the binoculars he’d packed, focusing on the bridge. The construction crews were there already. It pained him to see some of them using bolt cutters to cut off the locks, while others cut the chain-link off the sides.

  Brandon was surprised by the wetness on his cheeks, as he watched so many hopes and dreams cut off. He let the binoculars drop to the floor and lay down on top of the bed, waking only once to see the sun set and smile as the lights blossomed over the city.

  Later, he rose slowly, donned the white terry-cloth robe and placed the order for champagne and strawberries. He half-hoped that the man at the door would slip his hands under the robe he wore, but realized that was porn he’d seen sometime over his life. Life didn’t imitate dreams, as the short stocky older woman at the door could testify. He laughed as he accepted the tray.

  Brandon placed the tray on the desk, pulled out the chair, and penned a letter he decided to leave at the table—their table. He had another day to write the anniversary letter, but until then, he’d just leave the letter with a strawberry. He poured a glass, dropped a cored strawberry into it, and sipped. His robe fell from his shoulders and he slipped beneath the sheets, barely finishing his drink before he drifted off to sleep, to dream of what might happen tomorrow at lunch.

  In the morning, Brandon pulled on the suit he’d brought for the affair, for lunch with Hubert. He knew it was him. It had to be. And if not, it was a lovely gesture, just the same. But who else would be at this hotel on a Thursday afternoon?

  He made his way from his suite to the café, to the table. Hubert was sitting where he’d been sitting six years ago. The smile that grew on Brandon’s face was large and contrasted deeply with the saddened eyes of the man before him. Hubert was as attractive as ever, and Brandon had to bring his hand to his chest to stop himself from hyperventilating.

  “Hu…Hubert, it’s been a while.”

  “Are you happy with the shop? It’s difficult to make it out there before the tides.”

  “Yes. It’s like a secret island, for all the world to see, but not hold.”

  Hubert smiled. “I’ve got an idea for a shop of my own. I’m finally getting out of finance.”

  “A shop?”

  “Yes. Cheese.” Hubert rose and motioned to Brandon. “Please, sit. I’ll get the coffee.”

  Brandon pulled out the chair and sat, watching Hubert walk away, but then he noticed a rectangular box sitting on the table. The sky had just begun to darken; rain would arrive soon, and it would be just like that afternoon so long ago, although Brandon knew it would never go as far as that week had.

  Soon the cappuccinos were placed on the table, and a waiter brought out a baguette and butter, soon followed by a cheese platter.

  “Cheese? You’ve never told me about this fascination.”

  Hubert chuckled, “Oui. It’s been my saving grace, what with Bree running back home to America.” Hubert looked over Brandon’s shoulder, almost as if he hoped to catch a glimpse of his wife running away.

  Brandon smirked. “She called me yesterday, asked if I’d be interested in running away with her. I told her, I was finally successful, finally happy with my life.”

  Hubert nodded. His hand lingered near the box. Several times he moved it in front of him, and then back to the side. “You’re truly, happy then…?”

  Brandon wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement. “I have almost everything I ever wanted, but some things aren’t always available.” Like you.

  “I understand.” He slid the box across the table. “This is for you.”

  Brandon looked at the box closely. It had candle wax on one corner and a stain that looked as though it might have been wine. The box was covered in linen fabric, a cream color, which was why the white candle wax and red wine showed so clearly. His fingers moved in circles over the texture, his mind hitting back to that first anniversary, with the linen-weaved paper. A smile rose on his face as he looked up.

  “Please, open it.” Hubert gestured to him.

  Brandon lifted the lid and gasped. His hand unconsciously rose to his mouth, tears brimmed, and he glanced up into the beautiful face of Hubert, those green eyes, like sunlight shining through grape leaves, sparkling with tears. Brandon lifted the lock from the box. The lock was open, with the key lying beside it. “How? We threw the key in the water.”

  Hubert took a deep breath. “I wish
I could say I dove in and found it, but it was much more simple than that. I had a spare key.” He smiled. “Go, on…there is more.”

  He placed the lock and key on the lid and lifted the sheaf of paper from the box. Brandon sighed and looked up again. “You were the one who took them?” He thumbed through the pages of all the anniversary letters. “You hadn’t forgotten.”

  “No, I have not forgotten. I removed the lock that first anniversary, after I read your letter. And honestly, I almost removed it when you came to stay with us, after the attack.” He motioned to the packet of letters again. “I went back every year and read about your life—the little bits in between the times we’d meet up.”

  “You knew so much more than you let on.”

  “I was committed, even if she wasn’t.”

  “I…” Brandon stopped and found the letter he’d written as Danielle, and the tears gushed.

  Hubert reached out a hand and gently placed it on Brandon’s. “Thank you for that. You wrote as though she were writing through you. Thank you. I’ve had that one folded in my wallet since the day I found it.”

  “I wrote so much since that day.” Brandon fell silent, glad to feel the warmth of Hubert’s hand resting upon his. They both looked up and smiled. Pulling his hand out from the safety of Hubert’s, Brandon slid his chair back and rose. “I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  A few minutes later, he reappeared at the edge of the plaza and approached the table again and stopped next to it. His left hand had slipped deep into his pocket. Brandon watched Hubert take the same trip he’d taken six years ago. Those crisp, green eyes locked on his, and then they traveled down his face, over his lips, down his crisp white dress shirt, over his simple brown belt, to the growing tent in his slacks.