Subject: IF YOU ARE THE FARM BOY I MET IN THE ALLEY BEHIND THE FRENCH PRESS ON SATURD?—
My heart squeezes so tight, I swear it’s being sucked through a straw.
Comment: IN CASE YOU DON’T REMEMBER ME, I WAS WEARING A TRULY HORRID ANEMIC GREEN SKATER DRESS WITH ILL-FITTING CAP SLEEVES AND AN EXCESS OF TULLE. YOU MIGHT REMEMBER THAT I WAS CRYING, AND YOU NEVER ONCE TRIED TO MAKE ME STOP, AND THAT IS INCREDIBLY RARE IN MY EXPERIENCE, SO I WANTED TO THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR BEING SO DECENT. I’D ALSO LIKE TO APOLOGIZE FOR MY MOTHER’S CONDUCT. BECAUSE I AM AUTISTIC (AND HAVE A FEW OTHER COMORBIDITIES), SHE AND MY FAMILY CAN BE REALLY OVERPROTECTIVE TO THE POINT OF RUDENESS. I WAS ACTUALLY VERY IRRITATED WITH THE WAY SHE SPOKE TO YOU AND HOW SHE INTERRUPTED OUR CONVERSATION BECAUSE I DON’T USUALLY ENJOY TALKING TO NEW PEOPLE SINCE THEY DON’T REALLY UNDERSTAND HOW MY MIND WORKS AND THEY GET UNCOMFORTABLE SO THEN I GET UNCOMFORTABLE AND EXHAUSTED. BUT I WASN’T EVER UNCOMFORTABLE WITH YOU, AND THAT IS REMARKABLE. I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME, BUT I AM HARRIET ELOISE MERCIER, BUT EVERYONE CALLS ME HATTIE, WHICH I MUCH PREFER TO HARRIET. I DON’T CARE FOR MY MIDDLE N
It takes me a second to realize that she reached the form’s 1000-character limit and just pressed SEND. And then I Iaugh. I laugh so hard I shake the bed. I honestly can’t tell how much of it is from amusement—the thrilling carbonation of reading words and hearing them in her voice—or from relief.
Because even though she may be the only person like her in existence, the woman behind these words knows her own mind.
It wasn’t wrong of me to stand in her presence and only want more.
And because she found me. Even without making introductions, she must’ve seen and remembered the logo on my truck.
Thank God.
I reread her message again, disappointed this time that I haven’t accidentally skipped over her phone number. But, luckily, the contact form captured an email address. And my smile grows when I read it.
“Hattie Bobbin,” I say with a chuckle. “You sound like you’re from The Shire.” And, oddly, that fits. Because she has a rarity that seems both familiar and a little otherworldly. The way it feels to pick up a well-loved novel and slip into a world with elves and hobbits and be at home in it.
I open a new email and copy her address. I stare at the screen for a long moment and then dismiss my hesitation. She didn’t hesitate. Why should I?
From: [email protected]
Hi Hattie,
I don’t know where to start. Of course, I remember you. I couldn’t forget meeting you if I tried. (Hint: I might have tried hard the last couple days. No luck.) I really liked talking to you, too, and I was sorry it ended so fast. Which is why I’m glad you found the website and reached out. Thank you. Really.
My name is Beckett Jeansonne Olivier, but everyone calls me Beck. I’m grinning over here because I usually don’t give my full name in introductions, but you were kind enough to tell me yours, so fair is fair.
I think you were about to tell me that you don’t like your middle name? Is that so? Mine is my mother’s maiden name, and she was the gentlest, most patient person I’ve ever known—while also possessing a wicked sense of humor, so I’m glad a part of my name is hers. It reminds me to try to live up to her example (but I don’t always succeed).
You described your dress as horrid, and I remember that you said you hated it. That it was like wearing a cheese grater. You’re very funny. Is it okay to tell you that even if you had been wearing an actual cheese grater, you still would’ve been the prettiest sight I’ve seen in a long time?
I might be pushing my luck here, but I’d like to hear from you again. If you want to text or call, here’s my number: 337-555-8712.
Still staring,
Beck
My chest and face are on fire, but I’m grinning wide when I press send.
It’s incredible how one message from her and I’m frickin’ wide awake now. I snap the laptop shut, set it on the floor beside my bed, and switch off the lamp.
Maybe she’ll see the email tomorrow. Maybe she’ll text.
Something to hope for.
I shut my eyes, and I let out a huge fucking sigh of relief.
Because I can think of her now—remember how brilliantly beautiful she was, how bubbling over with life and spirit—and not feel wrong.
“Thank fucking God,” I mutter, willing my body to relax, hoping I can get seven hours of sleep because tomorrow is going to be just as long as today.
I yawn. Then mumble another, “Thank fucking God.”
