“I knew it,” I whisper. A smug smile lifts the corners of mymouth as I imagine rubbing the truth in Forrest’s face. But then everything that happened between us last night hits me again, and I realize I won’t be rubbing this—or anything else, for that matter—in his face ever again.
I stand quickly, feeling flustered. All day, I’ve been trying not to think about our kiss, with varying degrees of failure. I’ve had to stop my fingertips from grazing my lips or my lightly chafed neck. Every time his outsize frame accidentally brushed against mine in the car or at dinner, it felt like the gentle caress of a stun gun. Goose bumps erupt across my skin, and I realize that my traitorous hands are gliding across my collarbones. I snatch them away with an exasperated breath.
Think of your letter, I command myself as I pull off my smelly camping clothes, intentionally avoiding every erogenous zone. When I’m finally showered and dressed in my sweatsuit, I pad to the living room area and deal with the fire next. After nearly cooking myself that first time, I pulled Jo aside and asked her to show me how to properly build a fire. She was more than happy to, and no one was more surprised than I was when I actually enjoyed doing it.
When the fire’s going, I stand back to gaze at a blaze even the most die-hard Girl Scout would be proud of. And Iamproud, I realize with a small jolt. Never in a million years would I have guessed that I’d be able to build a fire, hike mountains, or survive camping in single-digit temperatures. But I’ve done all these things and have the sore muscles and sweat-stained bras to prove it. I shake my head in disbelief. Maybe Savannah was on to something after all.
My letter.
I grab it before settling into the cozy armchair by the fire. This envelope is a lot thicker than the last two, and as I open it, I discover about a dozen clumsily stapled pages of notebook paper folded next to Savannah’s letter. The faded pages are crammedwith my own childhood handwriting, and I raise a hand to my mouth in surprised recognition.
Laying the stapled pages on my lap for later, I unfold Savannah’s letter and begin to read.
Dear Margot,
How was your adventure?! JK, you can’t tell me, because you’re in the wilds of Alaska (mwah-ha-ha!). But you don’t need to tell me, because I already know: it was EPIC. Whether it was epically great or epically bad, I’m not sure, but I’m not going to sweat the details. The point is, you made it back, because you’re reading this, and I couldn’t be prouder. When you finally get back to L.A., I bet I won’t even recognize you. You’ll be like one of those survivalist babes on the NatGeo channel who can, like, filter muddy water through a tampon or something.
And speaking of awesome things you’re capable of, look no further than the Sacred Document enclosed within this envelope (did you just hear that chorus of singing angels?). Out of everything I’m sending along with these letters, this is the one thing I’m most nervous to put in the hands of the U.S. Postal Service. I consider it your origin point. The wellspring from which all your other stories have sprung. It’s the first love story you ever wrote!
Do you remember when I begged you to write it for me? It was the day Dad bailed on our first visitation weekend after the divorce. You were sitting in his empty painting studio, scraping paint splatters off the floor like you couldn’t bear even the smallest reminder that he’d ever lived with us. It broke my heart, Margot. Over the months of their constant fighting, I watched your faith in our father—and men in general—completely crumble. I knew it was all over the day you took down your side-by-sideconspiracy-theory posters of Prince Eric and John Stamos. You told me there was no such thing as love everlasting. I didn’t want to believe you were right.
Maybe it was all the Disney movies I’d watched while being stuck in the hospital, but I refused to believe that true love was a myth. Just because our parents didn’t find their HEAs with each other, it didn’t mean HEAs didn’t exist,period. I just needed to find a way to convince you, which was why I asked you to write me a love story. As a hopeless-romantic eleven-year-old, I hoped it would restore your faith in love. As a hopeless-romantic twenty-eight-year-old, I hope it will restore your faith in yourself.
I know so much has happened between then and now. Other letdowns, other heartaches. But I sent these precious pages to you as a reminder that even if everyone in the world lets you down (looking at you, PUBLISHING), you, Margot Bradley, have the extraordinary gift of turning heartbreak into something beautiful, hopeful, and, dare I suggest it, romantic. You know I always say the reason your books are so good is because you write from the heart, and it’s completely true. So now that you’re back from tracking animal scat or whatever they forced you to do, get back to writing your book, and don’t hold back. Write your heart out, no matter what’s hiding inside it.
Stay safe, but not too safe,
Savannah
I sniff once and swipe beneath my eyes. Is Savannah really going to make me cry every damn time? Apparently, yes. Carefully, I set down the letter and pick up the stapled pages. A watery laugh escapes me when I see the cover page.
Love at First Fight
A Short Story by Margot A. Bradley
and written for Savannah H. Bradley
Just as Savannah planned it, memory and affection wash over me at the sight of my first real attempt to write a story. But other details of that day sink in too. I remember when Mom broke the news that my sister and I wouldn’t be staying in Dad’s new apartment that weekend after all. The hurt, confusion, and grief that I was too young to fully understand or process. Most of all, I remember the anger. The way the all-too-cheerful cornflower blue paint lodged beneath my broken fingernails as I tried scraping him out of our lives for good.
I remember how Savannah begged me to stop and write her this story, and how I finally agreed. I told myself it would be a distraction. A way to cheer my sister up. I had no idea how engrossed I’d become, or how the story would blow the smallest breath of hope into the dying embers of my heart.
I open to the first page, handling it like a museum archivist. As I read through the opening lines, and then through every subsequent page, those same embers seem to burn hotter than the fire crackling next to me. I relive the first moments after I handed Savannah these pages, and the way I sat on the edge of my seat, dying for my sister’s reaction to every clumsy sentence. For the first time in a very long time, I remember why I became a romance writer in the first place. It’s not about my beliefs on love. It’s about giving people hope when they need it most. Maybe especially after they’ve gone through one of the many endings cataloged in my Happily Never After file.
I think of my fans—the countless people who’ve turned up to my book signings and sent me grateful messages for getting them through difficult times. For weeks, I haven’t let myself feel the loss of the romance community, but right now the lack of their supportfeels like a black hole opening up in my chest. How could I have ever taken them for granted and let myself lose them?
I look up at my laptop across the room, desperate to fill a loss that feels too big to comprehend safely. For the past week, my main character has been forced to work ever more closely with the steadfast Alaskan detective as they begin interviewing suspects. So far, she’s been impervious to his charms. Nothing, not even his dedication to justice or his adorably scrappy six-year-old daughter, tempts her away from her sole objective: solving the case.
But with physical proof in my hands that a love story can be the difference between bleak despair and a whisper of hope, I’m imagining a new path for my heartless character. Maybe she’s simply been hurt too many times to see clearly what’s in front of her. Maybe if she gives him a chance, he’ll prove her completely wrong.
I’m barely aware that I’ve made the decision to leave my seat and grab my laptop. When I open it, I begin to type, words flowing out of me like they never have before. It’s not what I had planned. But Savannah charged me to write from the heart, and this time, I’m listening.
14MARGOT
Sitting in front of the clunky PC in the lodge, I take a sip of lukewarm coffee while rereading the email I’ve just written to my agent. In the week since the camping incident, I’ve been busy—if that’s even the right word. Consumed is more like it. I owe it partly to feeling inspired but mostly to how convenient work makes it to avoid interacting with certain people. Namely Ollie (who nudges me about “hanging out” at every opportunity but especially in front of Forrest) and Forrest (who’s been hovering like a storm cloud but especially when I’m with Ollie). Honestly, it might be funny if I didn’t feel like a slab of red meat between two circling wolves. Despite knowing that giving Ollie a chance would diffuse the tensionandget me laid, I can’t bring myself to do it. Every night he asks, I tell him I need to work, andno, I’m not interested in examining why.
Suffice to say, I’m nearly halfway through my time in Alaska and have managed the not small feat of also reaching the halfway point of my manuscript. Which, in standing with tradition, means sending my agent initial pages for review. My teeth sink into the side of my cheek as I reread my email one last time and check that the satellite Internet I borrowed is still working on my laptop.
Hey Anjali,
