by Lili Valente
“I’m young, but I know what it’s like to love someone who isn’t right for me,” Melody says, crossing her arms at her chest. “I loved Brian. I didn’t want to break up with him, but when I realized we weren’t going to work long term, I did it.”
The day I told Mason it was over, Melody came home in tears from her last date with Brian. When she took Felicity over to his parents’ farm to pet the animals, Brian not only refused to hold the baby, but made little effort to conceal his lack of enthusiasm for small, drooling people who make a mess in their diapers. Melody flat out asked him whether he wanted children in the future, and he confessed that he found babies “kind of gross.”
No one infers that Melody’s treasured baby niece is gross and gets away with it.
She broke up with Brian on the spot, and refused to even consider giving the boy a second chance.
“And I’ve been sad about it,” Melody continues. “But I’m not going to let it destroy me or my relationships with the other people I care about.”
I shrug, trying to act like I’m not bleeding inside from Melody’s attack of tough love. “Well, maybe you’re stronger than I am. Or maybe you don’t love the same way I do. Maybe it’s not as intense an experience for you.”
Now, it’s Melody’s turn to look offended. “That’s not fair. Just because I don’t give up on life when I’m sad, it doesn’t mean I’m not—”
“I’m not giving up! I’m hurting, Melody, can’t you—”
“Hold on, you two,” Aria says, stepping between us. “Just wait a second.”
Aria takes Melody’s hand. “I think what Lark is trying to say is that you’ve always been a really positive person, Melody. Like Mom. That doesn’t mean you don’t feel things, but it may mean you’re naturally better at…bouncing back. That you’re more resilient.” Aria turns to me. “And I think what Melody is trying to say is that you’ve come so far in the past four years. You’re a stronger person now, and there’s no reason to let what happened with Mason take that away from you.”
“So you think I need to grow up, too?” I clench my jaw against the urge to cry.
Aria meets my eyes for a long moment. “Not to be a jerk, because I love you and I understand exactly what you’re feeling, but…yes. It’s time to get help if you need it. That’s the grown up thing to do.”
I nod before tucking my chin, hiding the tears filling my eyes. “Well,” I say, my voice trembling. “Thanks for the help, y’all. I feel so much better.”
“Oh, Sissy, we love you, you know we do.” Melody pulls me in for a hug, crushing me into her abundant chest. “And you’re going to feel better soon, I just know it. We’ll help any way we can.”
“Yes, we will.” Aria throws her arms around us both, turning me into sister-hug sandwich filling.
I stiffen for a second—resentment at being blindsided by an “intervention” warring with the need to melt into my sisters’ arms—but I finally give in and wrap one arm around Melody’s waist and the other around Aria’s, pulling them close. We hug for a good five minutes, rocking back and forth in the fading light until Aria finally pulls away and says—
“I love you both dearly, but I’m hot as the devil’s nut sack. I can’t hug anymore.”
“Ew,” Melody says as she releases me. “That’s disgusting, Aria.”
“So is how sweaty I am under this white button-down.” Aria pulls at the front of her shirt. “Maybe we should let the servers wear short sleeves from now on.”
“No way,” I say, stepping in to slam the van’s back doors closed. “Short sleeve button-downs are tacky looking.”
“So are sweat patches,” Aria says. “And servers who smell more onion-y than the appetizers.”
“Mitch does get kind of stinky by the end of a shift,” Melody says thoughtfully, snatching the keys from my hand and heading for the driver’s seat while shouting, “I’m driving!”
“Shotgun!” I call, making Aria groan at being stuck in the middle for the ride back.
“But Mitch refuses to wear real deodorant,” I continue, letting Aria into the passenger’s side of the van and climbing in after. “He wears that hippy rock crystal stuff from the health food store. I think you two should give him an intervention.”
“I wouldn’t mind intervening in Mitch’s affairs,” Melody says, backing the van out of our space. “He’s kind of cute, don’t you think?”
“Gross, no.” Aria makes a gagging sound. “He’s about as big around as my right thigh.”
“So?” Melody asks. “You’re skinny, and we still like you.”
“Most of the time,” I add, earning a laugh from Melody and an elbow in the ribs from Aria.
I smile. It feels good to goof off with my sisters, to laugh on the way home as we talk about stupid stuff like Mitch’s armpits, the bleeding deer head cake our dad wants to celebrate the start of deer season this fall, and the garden war our nana is in with her neighbor to see who can grow the biggest watermelon before the fair later this summer.
I haven’t felt this angst-free in months. I’m not sure if the feeling is going to last, but I’m grateful for the reprieve from the misery that’s been my constant companion.
So grateful, that, for the first time in weeks, I make it through my shower and the rest of my pre-bedtime regimen without getting the slightest bit teary and fall asleep without a single Mason-flavored thought passing through my head.
And then I begin to dream, a bizarre barrage of anxiety dreams that put my usual stress-induced nightmares to shame.
Flying over an ocean of grape Jell-O in a glider made of tissue paper when it starts to rain Earl Grey tea that scalds me as I fall into the gelatinous ocean and drown?
Check.
Running through a field of flowers with tiny zombie faces and being bitten on my ankle right as I make it to the watermelon stage where Nana is dancing the jitterbug with a human-sized cockroach?
Check.
Shuffling down the street years and years from now, when I’m even older than Nana, and running into the old man Mason has become only for him to clutch his chest and fall to the ground, dying of a heart attack before I can tell him how much I still love him, or how sorry I am for wasting the lifetime we should have had together?
Check and check and…check.
I dream different versions of that same terrible dream at least three times. In every one, we lose our chance at love, and I live to regret it more than I’ve ever regretted anything.
When I finally wake up the next morning, I’m truly shaken.
It doesn’t take a consult with a professional dream analyst to know what my subconscious is trying to tell me. I may not know the symbolic significance of Jell-O oceans or Nana dancing with a cockroach, but I know I don’t want my last dream to become a reality.
In that moment—still lying in bed, tangled in the covers I’ve twisted into knots during my troubled sleep—I make a decision. I’m not going to ask Mom for the name of the counselor she talked to after Pop-pop died. Not yet.
First, I’m going to Atlanta.
Filled with sudden, urgent purpose, I lunge for the phone by my bed and jab in Melody’s number.
My sister answers after the third ring with a sleepy-sounding, “Hello?”
“Melody, it’s me. I have an important question for you.”
“Lark? Is everything okay?”
“I was just wondering if you and Aria can handle the bridal shower this afternoon alone?”
Melody yawns. “Um…yeah. I think so. The cake and cookies are done and most of the apps prepped, right?”
“Right.” I swing my feet off the side of the bed and pad across the room to my closet. “And Aria is on serving dish duty. The only thing you’ll have to do is grill the bacon-wrapped duck bites about ten minutes after the guests start to arrive.”
“I can handle that,” Melody says. “So what’s up? Did you catch Natalie’s cold?”
“Um…sort of.” I grab my sleeveless white sundress from its hanger
. “I’m definitely going to see a doctor.”
“You should,” Melody says. “Natalie called last night, said she felt awful until she took time to rest up. This isn’t something you want to mess around with.”
“I agree, I’m heading to the doctor now,” I say, though I doubt Mason has office hours on Sundays. I’ll just have to show up at his new place for a house call. Thanks to his letters, I have the address.
“Okay. Good.” Melody yawns again. “You want me to call Aria and tell her what’s up?”
“Yes, please, could you? That would be great.”
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, dropping the phone back in its cradle as I race into the bathroom to get dressed, grateful my hair dried in smooth waves instead of curly on one side, flat on the other, the way it sometimes does when I go to bed with wet hair. I don’t want to waste any more time getting pretty than I absolutely have to.
Now that I’ve decided to go to Mason, I can’t get to him fast enough.
But there is one thing I have to do first…
As soon as I’m dressed, I fix a single serve cup of coffee and sit down with the pile of Mason’s letters. By the time I finish the first, I know I’m making the right decision. By the end of the second, I’m sniffling, and by the end of the third, I’m cursing myself for being so pig-headed.
The love Mason feels for me is present in every line, his commitment obvious in the letters that kept coming, week after week, always long and thoughtful, even when I refused to respond.
He loves me, he wants a future together, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn my trust, even if it takes a year’s worth of letters. Two years. Three. He swears he’ll keep writing until I agree to see him again, and by the time I finish reading, I believe him.
I close the last letter with a determined breath.
Melody and Aria are right. It’s time for me to grow up and do the work. Mason can only take the healing so far on his own. Now it’s my turn. My turn to prove that my love for him is more powerful than my fear, to prove that I’m brave and ready to put my money where my mouth is.
Luckily, several clients sent in their deposits last week. My bank account is in a healthy place, and I can afford a splurge in the name of love.
Now, to find a store that’s open on Sunday mornings…
I pull out my laptop and do some searching, finding what I’m looking for in a shopping center about three blocks from Mason’s condo. Five minutes later, I’m in my car on the way to Atlanta, my hands shaking with nerves, my jaw tight with excitement, and my heart aching with hope that today will be the day that changes everything, the first day of the rest of my no-longer-lonely life.
Chapter 26
Mason
A week after I moved into my new place, I found the perfect brunch spot.
It’s a hole in the wall three blocks from my condo complex called The Root Cellar that serves obscenely good omelets, pancakes, and French press coffee in carafes the waiters leave on your table so you can enjoy it down to the last, gritty drop.
It’s busy during the breakfast rush, especially on Sundays, but the staff doesn’t mind if you linger at one of the outdoor tables on the sidewalk. And so, every Sunday, I buy the paper and head to The Root Cellar with my favorite pen and a spiral notebook to eat breakfast, drink too much coffee, and write Lark her weekly letter.
At first, I was worried that I might run out of things to say—being as addicted to email as everyone else, I haven’t written a real letter in years—but I find the process strangely soothing. By the end of the first page, I connect to the words, and by the end of the second, I connect to Lark. I can imagine the look on her face as she reads each line, the parts where she might smile, and the parts that would make her bite her lip and put on her thinking face.
I pour myself into every letter, sharing everything about my new job and my new life in Atlanta, and then going back to a moment from my past I never told her about and describing it in detail.
I never want something I’ve held back to come between us again.
So, I fill her in on the darker parts of my childhood, the parts I deliberately left out when we were first dating, not wanting her to feel sorry for me or to expose old wounds that, at that point, hadn’t completely healed. I fill her in on the events of the summer after my mother left, and the first few months living with Uncle Parker. I tell her about learning there are worse things than a neglectful parent, like living with a man who resented the fact that you were even born. I tell her stories about my residency, the crazy people I met in the E.R., and the old woman who lived above my apartment during my first two years in New York, but died the third, and how my roommates and I had been the only people at her funeral.
I tell her about my last meeting with Parker and how much freer I feel, and how much I love my new workplace, but mostly I tell her that I love her.
And miss her.
And that no good thing is quite as good without her around to share it. I tell her that I need her and that I’m never going to stop needing her, and that I hope someday she’ll realize that she needs me, too.
But, truthfully, I’m not expecting that day to be any day soon. I saw how hurt she was, and Melody said Lark hasn’t mentioned my letters. For all I know, she could be tearing them up and throwing them in the garbage.
But still I write, hoping for the best, but expecting nothing to change for a long time.
Maybe ever.
So to say I’m surprised to look up from my freshly delivered Italian omelet to see Lark walking down the sidewalk in a white sundress toward me, looking like a sun-kissed angel, is an understatement. I’m stunned.
Dumbfounded.
Rendered speechless, motionless. All I can do is sit and stare as she draws closer.
I’m sure she’s going to walk right by me without noticing the man gaping behind the low, wrought iron fence surrounding The Root Cellar’s outdoor seating area, but then she stops. Just…freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, as if I’ve called her name. A beat later, she reaches for her sunglasses, pulling them from her face as she turns my way.
When her gaze connects with mine, her eyes widen and a tiny squeaking sound escapes her lips. She looks as shocked as I feel. I begin to suspect this is some terrible coincidence, that she didn’t come here to find me and that she’s going to make a break for her car any second, when she says—
“I was on my way to your place.”
—and my heart does a backflip in my chest.
I flick my notebook shut and stand, facing her across the fence.
“You were?” I ask, wanting to touch her so badly I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her hand.
She nods, fidgeting with her purse strap. “I’ve…missed you.”
“Me, too,” I say quickly, my heart hammering harder. “So much. Every day.”
“And I…read your letters this morning.”
“You did?” I fight to keep my face expressionless. It’s too early to start celebrating. She might be here to tell me to quit writing, for all I know. The missing me part was good, but she looks so nervous I can’t be sure what this is about. Surely, if she’s read the letters, she has to know I’ll welcome her back in my life, any way she wants that to happen.
She nods again. “They helped me make an important decision.” She pulls in a shaky breath. “I mean, I’d already pretty much made the decision, or part of the decision—the most important part—but they helped me be certain I was making the right decision. You know what I’m saying?”
I shake my head, my pulse racing. “No, but you’d better tell me quick. I’m not sure my heart can take the suspense.”
“Oh. Right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, and—” She flutters her hand anxiously. “I’m screwing this up.”
“You’re not screwing anything up.”
“I am,” she says, wincing. “I had it all planned, and now I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m babbling
and you’re nervous and I’m nervous and—”
“I’m not nervous. I’m so happy to see you again, and…” I pull in a breath and risk adding, “And I hope I’ll be seeing more of you from here on out.”
“Me, too,” she says, holding my gaze, the tension slowly seeping from her features. “Your eyes always make me feel better.”
“Yours, too,” I say, my jaw tightening as a wave of emotion swells inside me. “They’re my favorite eyes.”
“And you’re my favorite person, so…” She reaches into her purse, drawing out a small, red box before she bends down, kneeling on the concrete in front of me.
My jaw releases with a spasm.
“I would be down on one knee, but I wasn’t thinking and my dress is too short,” she says with a shaky laugh, “so you’ll have to settle for both knees.”
Her tongue sweeps across her lips as she opens the red box, revealing a thick, silver band with something etched on the side that I can’t read from where I stand.
But I don’t need to read it to know what it is.
And more importantly, what it means.
“Mason Stewart,” Lark says, holding my gaze, not seeming to notice the hushed murmurs as the people around us realize what’s happening. “First of all, I want to apologize for not giving you the benefit of the doubt when you deserved it.”
I open my mouth to tell her it doesn’t matter, but she hurries on before I can speak. “Because you did deserve it. You are the best man I’ve ever met. You’re kind and funny and gentle and strong. You’re compassionate and caring and sexy and the only person who has ever made me feel completely at home no matter where I am.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “You are my best friend and my only love and…” She takes a breath and continues in a trembling voice, “And I don’t want to live any more of my life without you. So I came here today to ask you if you’ll marry me. So…will you, Mason? Will you marry me?”
A ragged sigh of relief bursts from my chest along with a firm, “Yes.”
“Yes?” she echoes, her lips curving.