“There’s no way you already finished it.”
He shrugs. “Fast reader.”
I make a sound of disgust and take the letter from him, looping my arms around his neck and leaning against his chest so I can read over his shoulders. With his hands slowly scooping hot water down my spine, holding me to him, I feel about as ready as I ever will be.
Dear Margot,
The last one was a doozy, eh? I feel like I should apologize for getting your hopes up about all these letters only to keep bringing up some of the hardest moments of your life. But I promise I’m not a complete asshole. For this letter, instead of talking about the past, I want to take alittle road trip into the future. I’ve packed your avocados, my favorite seaweed chips, sunglasses, and even one of those female urination cups that gives you a little plastic penis, in case we need to pee on the side of the road. Ready, Thelma?
In the future I’m imagining, your fans have forgiven you, and Barker has taken you back as their favorite pet author. I know you probably just read that and either winced, rolled your eyes, cried, or did all three at the same time. But listen. I know I don’t need to tell you this, but romance readers are thebestkinds of readers. For one, we buy ALL the books. The publishing industry would probably just lie down and die without us. Secondly, and most importantly, we believe in true love. And the thing is, you can’t have true love without forgiveness, Margot. Try reading a romance novel sometime—you’ll see.
My point is, I see a detour up ahead, and if (and ONLY if) you want to take it, I think it might help you win everyone back. I know your team released that official statement way back when everything went down, but you and I both know it sounded like a committee of stuffy PR dude-bros wrote it. Since then, no one has heard a peep from you. And yes, I realize that may have something to do with someone bundling you onto a plane and sending you to the Alaskan bush (you’re welcome), but I’m guessing your fans needed this time. That you did too.
I also realize you went to Alaska with murder in your heart (just the fictional kind, hopefully) and that you’re trying your hand at a new genre. For the record, this isnotme telling you to abandon it. Go ahead and finish your dead-body book and then write some Pokémon fan fiction if that’s what you’re called to do. But I happen to know, as your sister and an authority on all things Margot Bradley,that despite what your Happily Never After file may suggest, the real secret is that youlovebeing a romance author. More than anything, you love your readers. And now that we’ve all had a minute to calm down, maybe it’s time to reach back out? Because on behalf of all of Romancelandia, may I humbly say, we fucking miss you.
Stay safe, but not too safe,
Savannah
Sometimes—no, all the time—it’s scary how well my sister knows me. I drop the letter back on the table, and it’s hard to know if it’s the wonder or the water making me float. This morning, with dawn filtering through the snow-powdered windows of our cabin, I left Forrest asleep in bed and snuck out to the living room with my laptop, intending to get a few more pages done. Instead I found myself writing something else entirely: an explanation to my readers.
“Well?” Forrest says, sliding a hand over my lower back in the water. “Are you going to make a statement, Thelma?”
Disbelief stretches my lips into a smile. If there’s any reason I was finally able to pin down the feelings Savannah wants me to share with my readers, it’s because of Forrest. Despite all our obstacles, I can see a future together spooling out ahead of us like the thread of hope woven through any great romance novel. Maybe it’s been there all along.
“I wrote it this morning,” I tell him, looping my arms around his neck.
He looks at me like he’s not surprised but laughs all the same. “Your sister is something else.”
“Just wait till you meet her.”
The seemingly casual words feel like a promise and a plea. At Thanksgiving, I defended his decision to stay behind. But everynew morning I’ve woken up in his arms, it’s gotten harder not to beg him to come home with me. And right now he’s looking at me like all I have to do is ask.
“I wrote a letter, too,” he confesses, and my whole body goes still. He reaches back toward the table and grabs his phone. After unlocking his screen and tapping it a few times, he exhales and says, “Here.”
He hands it to me, and I see an email draft. At the wordsan honor and privilege to accept the Bauer-Hinckley Grant, I nearly drop his phone in the hot tub. My eyes jerk up to his as my heart starts a sprint to nowhere. I’m about to either speak, or scream, or pass out when he takes his phone back, places it on the table, and kisses me.
We sink lower into the water, my hands slipping up his powerful neck into his hair as our mouths find a now familiar rhythm that’s all our own. When he groans softly, the terrifying thought occurs that I want to do this forever. I could kiss this man for the rest of my life and never get tired of it. He breaks away, panting, and rests his forehead on mine with his eyes closed.
“Let’s send them,” he says, low and fervent.
“Right now?” I ask as fear/excitement/nausea bolts through me.
“We’re never going to have a better Internet connection.”
“I love it when you talk dirty,” I say, earning a low husk of a laugh.
“I mean it,” he says, opening his evergreen eyes to gaze at me. The sun is setting over pristine Alaskan hillsides, painting the snow every shade of warm pink and orange, but all I can see is him. I’m almost trembling with the temptation to say yes, but if there’s anyone who knows what this means for him, it’s me.
“It would mean leaving your dad,” I state the obvious. “You can’t do that, Forrest.”
His hands tighten on me like I’m already slipping away from him. “You heard him at Thanksgiving,” he argues, his eyes reckless and hungry over me. “He wants me to do this. I’ll visit once amonth to keep an eye on things, but he hasn’t had any backsliding. There’s every reason to believe his health will only continue to improve.” He says this like it’s a line he’s been repeating to himself for days.
“And what about helping with his physical therapy?” I force myself to ask. “His medication management and nerve blocks? Jo can’t care for him like you do.”
What I can’t ask are the harder questions, like “what if?” Whatifsomething happens to Trapper? Would the grant legally bind Forrest to stay in California? Or might he leave again? The thought sends a chill through me that has nothing to do with the frost forming at the ends of my damp hair.
“He may need to spend more time in Anchorage during the busy season when Jo isn’t as available to help. He also won’t have nerve blocks at home any more, but I know Jo will take him to Anchorage if his pain meds aren’t cutting it,” Forrest concedes. “I’ll buy him and Jo a place in the city that’s close to the hospital.”
