Page 7 of Left of Forever

We both laugh, even if mine is a little pained. We’ve been through too much together to get too embarrassed of these things. In the background, I hear Fisher’s muffled voice say something like, “Here, try this.”

“No problem, kid,” I tell her. “Have fun.”

“Fisher made cioppino,” she says in her smiling voice again. “And thanks, Elly. Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The moment I hang up the phone, loneliness overwhelms me. I am so happy and relieved, and so fucking miserable.

I’ve tried to stop missing Wren. I’ve tried so hard to respect her space, to make it so we could get through raising our son without hurting each other anymore. But I’ve been fracturing for months. Like time has been a flimsy dam while everything has only seemed to build, and it’s all starting to give. All the people who once needed me don’t anymore. Or won’t soon. And I almostlostSilas. Almost failed. Fuck, I wince when I remember seeing Wren come around the corner at the hospital. I don’t know how long I’d been awake at that point, I just knew I had to wait for Sage to get there so I could be strong for her, to hold on tight to all the edges of myself for my sister and brother. But then I saw Wren’s face soon after, those wild blond curls and warm chocolate eyes, and it was like—like seeing home after decades away.Like falling into bed after sleeping on hard ground for years, and I… I fucking lost it. I miss her. I miss her. I—

Shit.

No. I can’t. I have no right to miss her. We’ve established safe, liminal spaces that allow us to stay separate and contained. No messes, no added hurt. We’ve had to maintain that for our son.

I physically feel myself start to compartmentalize and zip everything back into place.

I’ll write her back, I decide. I know her and know she won’t be able to let this go, not with the soft spot she has where horses are concerned. I’ll do the polite thing that Kirby suggested, and I’ll simply get her the information she needs in the meantime. Actually, this is safest, anyway. She doesn’t even need to know it’s me. As far as she’ll be concerned, we’ll still be separate and contained.

I reach for the pad of paper on the desk and dig a pencil out of my pack, too. I don’t know how most people write in pen. I rarely get shit right the first time and would love to use an eraser on more than words.

And then I start my reply.

Dear Stranger,I say. I’ll only respond in kind to everything she’s put in her letter, but I draw the line at calling her by the wrong name.

First, thank you for the scones. I’m happy to report that I apparently have excellent taste, since they were delicious. As far as your inquiry, I’m sorry I don’t have an answer readily available, but I will get you one as soon as I can. (Especially since you didn’t put any pressure on it or anything.)

For the record, you’d be surprised at how many miracles I see out here, even amid all the devastation.Oftentimes, there’s no explaining the things we come across. I’ve found an unscathed chicken coop in a scorched field before. A perfectly preserved garden in the middle of some charred earth. A pair of newborn fawns huddled together, totally healthy and untouched under a pile of burnt wood. I think it’s okay to hold out hope that they’re still alive. Hope doesn’t have the power to cancel out worry, anyway.

Sincerely,

I debate how to sign it. I want to use something covert like she has, but also lends some sort of clue, too, for whatever reason I can’t fathom. I eventually whittle it down to

—L

My stomach lurches with a growl as soon as I’m finished, and in a fit of desperation, I add,

P.S. I conduct my best research under the influence of chocolate.

For the return address, I put the name of the hotel and the room number under “Guest L,” since it’s the extended stay that I’ve reserved for the next month through the mutual aid group. It’s not as if they’d give her my name if she called into the hotel, anyway.

I should probably stop and take an assessment of everything I feel again, contemplate how a box of scones and memories have me hungrier and lonelier than ever.

Instead, I collect a stamp from the front desk and ask them to have it sent, hands trembling and heart galloping when I walk away.

CHAPTER 3

ELLIS

It takes four days for her reply. Four days in which I barely sleep and struggle to eat and throw myself into work like a madman. I’m convinced I’ve done the wrong thing and am about to call Wren and fess up when the hotel room phone rings, and the front desk lets me know that I’ve got a package.

I catch sight of my reflection on the way out of my room and grimace. I’m filthy, the lines marring my face and hands caked in dirt and soot. The winds have picked up, spreading the fire with it, and we’re scrambling to get on top of the thing. Probably why Lennon’s cousin hasn’t been able to get us any more information on the missing horses, too.

Anticipation bounces violently in my stomach when I spot a pink box on the back counter downstairs, and I shift restlessly in line behind a group checking in until I finally get it. I don’t have the patience to take it back up to my room once it’s finally in my hands, and I carry it over to a table in the lobby instead.

My grimy fingers tear into the box, and my brain stutters over what to grab first—the letter inside or the black forest whoopie pies that I recognize.

“Did you justmoan, Cap?” comes Lennon’s voice from over my shoulder. Fuck. “It was somehow both a moan and a growl,” she adds, chuckling. I see her hover in the corner of my eye now. “You sure you don’t need to open that in private?”