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“Yes, I do remember you, Elle Lark,” Clara says as she flips through the envelopes, and I catch glimpses of those letters full of love right before she plucks out one with handwriting I recognize.
Mine.
My own scratchy, messy little-girl handwriting.
Holy shit, my eyes are burning.
Clara’s smile is everything as she pulls out the letter on the special pink paper I begged my grandmother to get me just for that letter.
“You wrote to Inky over a dozen times, didn’t you?” Clara asks with emotion, as if she’s picking up everything vibrating through me. She unfolds the paper tenderly, then reads it over. “Dear Inky, today my friend Lena and me went all the way to France! We told the French people we were Inky’s friends and we came to bring them letters. But the mean Dodson kids next door were playing the French people and they ripped up the letters and laughed and said they were dumb. It’s not dumb. I like writing letters! I just want a friend to write letters with from far away. Will you be my friend, no matter where you go?”
Oh no.
Oh no, the waterworks are starting, and I press my face into my hands.
“And ... and Inky wrote back. He said he would always be my friend. That I wasn’t dumb and I wrote wonderful letters, and so did Lena, and anytime I wrote him, he’d always write me back.” I suck in a shaking breath. I can’t stop smiling, even as my eyes overflow. “Only August told me ... he told me that was you. That letter was the one that made me want to draw things that made other kids as happy as Inky made me, and it was you the whole time. Not some assistant. Not a form letter. You, Clara Marshall.”
“Oh, dear, let me get you a tissue. Perhaps one for me too.” With a slightly embarrassed laugh and her eyes gleaming, Clara plucks a tissue from a box on the end table next to a cozy reading chair and offers it to me. “I didn’t expect we’d both get so emotional. But yes, it was me. I do remember you wrote back and told me one day you’d draw books just like the ones Inky was in. So, my dear, have you?”
I take the tissue, sniffing and laughing at the same time.
“Um, not yet,” I say, scrubbing at my eyes. “I’ve mostly been doing freelance illustration work to pay the bills and haven’t been able to refine a concept yet. But with the whole thing with August ... I’ll be able to take plenty of time off to work on my own ideas, so he’s really helping me out a lot. I’m not just helping him.” I rub the tissue against my nose. “He’s a really great guy. Better than I think he knows.”
Clara’s smile is radiant. “I do wish more people had your insight to know that. You must be quite a special girl to understand my August so quickly.”
“Oh God. I don’t know if I understand him. It’s just really fun poking him.” Then I groan. “I’m sorry. I’m being embarrassing. Crying and running my mouth ...”
“No, darling. You’re not embarrassing. You’re honest, and I appreciate the honesty. It’s needed in a world where people have forgotten how such things work.” Clara folds my letter and tucks it almost reverently back into the envelope before she holds it up. “Would you like to keep this?”
I bite my lip, shaking my head. “It would mean more to me if you kept it, ma’am. I know it’s just one of thousands, but ... it’s special, knowing that you’ve had it all this time.”
“Oh, Elle—we’re all one of thousands. Of millions. Of billions. But that’s what makes us unique. We’re the only ones who can be that one.” She smiles gently, pressing my letter to her chest. “I’d be delighted to keep it. Every letter is unique to me.”
My idol. My hero.
She’s about to kill me.
I never imagined she could be so relatable. To think she’d remember a letter I wrote over a decade ago, when she must have been inundated, assuming all these wooden chests are stuffed with letters.
I want to be just like her.
Not just my career, but my life. I want to be this kind, this thoughtful, this warm.
Then it hits me so powerfully I actually stumble back.
I want to be someone August could love.
God, what’s wrong with me?
Did one kiss mess me up this freaking much?
I’ve tried so hard to put it behind me.
It was an act, an instinct, and August went as mum as I did after it happened.
I didn’t want to make things weird, so I just pretended it didn’t happen. But that night when I lay in bed and touched my lips and felt him, plus the lingering thought of his scratchy stubble on my skin ...
Oh God, did I misbehave.
