Page 5 of Left of Forever

This scone is everything good, before it wasn’t anymore.

I set the box down beside me and pull out the envelope. I slide a trembling finger beneath the edge to pry it apart, pulling outthe paper inside. My eyes immediately go to the bottom where it’s been signed:Salem Meridian—Wren’s middle and maiden name.

A possessive urge tears through me. It’s the same spike of emotion that had me embarrassing us both at one of our town meetings last summer, when someone referred to her by her maiden name and I couldn’t stop myself from reminding them (and by extension the whole town) thatshe’s still a Byrd. We’ve been divorced for over four years, but her last name is still Byrd, so… she is still a Byrd.

In any case, the package is clearly from Wren herself. Not something thrown together by her mom or any of the other bakery employees at Savvy’s.

The handwriting is familiar, but nothing I could have picked out of a lineup if I hadn’t recognized the name combination at the bottom.ShouldI recognize her handwriting? This is a person I learned to write alongside, someone I shared a whole life with. Did we really become that distant? I can’t pinpoint why this makes me feel like I swallowed something jagged.

I guess I could blame modern technology. It’s not as if we handwrote anything much to one another when we’d been married.

So…distantis probably a mild word for what we became toward the end. And no matter that we co-parent well enough, we’re beyond distant now. Proven by the fact that she even sent this care package here, I think. If she’d had any indication I was working this Colorado border fire, I doubt she’d have sent something here. I get a fast, nasty lick of hope that maybe she was aware, somehow, but I smother it just as quickly. As far as I know, we’ve gone out of our way to avoid as much information as we can about each other since the split.

I really only slipped up once. It had been six months into the divorce when I broke down and made the mistake of asking Sageif Wren had started dating, and after seeing her get pale and visibly uncomfortable, I couldn’t stand the idea of putting any of our friends or family in that awkward position again.

No… I’m certain Wren hasn’t cared to stay updated on my whereabouts, and even if she had, she would’ve had to find out through Silas, by proxy. Per his wishes, I’ve been giving him space, so he has no idea, anyway. None of my family know I’m here.

I realize I’m clutching the paper so hard it’s creasing, and immediately loosen my hold. I take a deep breath and another bite of a scone before I read.

Dear Stranger—

I have no idea how long I agonized over how to address this letter, but To Whom It May Concern felt too stiff, and Dear Firefighter felt too silly. I’ll admit that Dear Stranger felt corny to open with somehow, but for all I know, you could be a complete piece of shit (which will be decided based on your reply or lack thereof to this letter, by the way), so beginning this with Dear Friend felt phony. Maybe you’re not very dear at all, and Friend? I have some truly great friends, so that’s a title I hold in too high regard to assign willy-nilly.

First off, I hope you enjoyed the scones! Who are we kidding, of course you did if you have any taste at all. If not, please lie. I’ve taken all the care I could in packaging them so that they arrive in perfect condition. If they’re stale, I’m sorry, but please do your best not to hold that against me. I can assure you they were flawless when I sent them.

Now to the reason I’m writing this letter (and if I’m honest, why I’ve sneaked it off to you under the bribery of scones)… You see, I desperately need someone to get me some information.

Last week, I saw news coverage of the fire, specifically an interview of an older couple at one of the evacuation centers who spoke tearfully about a pair of their horses getting loose in the chaos of them fleeing. A beautiful dapple-gray Clydesdale and an equally beautiful palomino quarter horse. The woman talked about how these horses shared a special bond, and all they’d been through together. I won’t risk boring you with all the details—I’m already worried enough that you won’t read this thing in its entirety, so I’ll keep it as concise as possible. When one of the horses panicked and bolted, the other followed.

I’m writing to you, dear stranger (see? Not as weird now ((god, I hope I get exponentially lucky and you’re a woman. Lord knows every fire department needs more of them (((Yes, you’ll have to trust and believe me that I KNOW this to be the case. I’ve got family and friends in the field.))). But I am writing to you, dear stranger, in the hopes that you might be able to tell me what ended up becoming of the pair.

Please do your best not to be annoyed that some crazy woman is bothering you to track down this information while you’re busy saving homes and lives. It’s just that (not to pile on the pressure or anything), but YOU are my last hope, whoever you are. I’ve contacted the news station to try to find out the names of the owners, since they weren’t disclosed in the story. I’vetirelessly searched online every day. Even as I scribble that word, “tireless” seems like it must be incorrect because I am EXHAUSTED. I’m not sleeping, instead lying awake and wondering what happened to them. I’ve even joined as many of the local neighborhood Facebook groups as possible that will let me in without verification. Dear stranger, I cannot tell you how little time I have to get invested in all of the suburban soap operas playing out in these groups! Did you know that someone on their morning runs has been dropping trou and pooping on people’s lawns?! I won’t detract from my message here to get too far into it, but just know these people have their cameras ready to catch the poo-poo perpetrator.

Back tomyproblem, though. I simply need closure. I need to know if those two beautiful creatures made it out of that cataclysmic thing, and… and I need to know if they didn’t, too. Please don’t be afraid to tell me if they didn’t make it, I simplywantneed to know. You can write me back and mail to the bakery address on the box, or you can call the number that is printed there, too. Whichever you’re most comfortable with. I’m not giving you my personal number because who knows if you’re a complete pervert or not.

Sincerely (hopeful),

Salem Meridian

P.S. If they were caught in the blaze… at least tell me… were they together in the end?

CHAPTER 2

ELLIS

I’m not sure how many times I read the letter over the meal break. Enough times to absentmindedly eat the entire box of scones, at least. When it’s time to get back to work, I stand up with an overfilled gut and an even heavier feeling everywhere else.

I go through the lines enough to memorize parts of it, I guess, because pieces of it play in a mental loop the rest of the day. So much of it was her. That unapologetic humor, the rapid-fire stream of consciousness unraveling across the page. The way I could hear the anxiety in her words, even the demanding ones. So much was glaringly unfamiliar, too, between not recognizing the handwriting, down to theDear Stranger.

I guess that must be what we really are to each other now.

Throughout the day, I swear the letter gets warmer against my chest. I take it out time and time again until all the edges feel soft. I start asking everyone if they’ve heard anything about thisstory. Some have but don’t know any more information or if the horses were found or not.

At the end of the day, after I’ve just asked another captain the same set of questions, Kirby slides into the pickup truck alongside me and asks, “Does this have anything to do with that letter you keep looking at?”

I blow out a heavy breath. Must not have been sly taking it out so much earlier. “Mind your business, Kirby.”

“My cousin was working the other side of the fire when that all went down. I remember seeing the news clip, too. I’ll call him for you.”