Page 70 of Sincerely, Mr. Braden

My stylus glides over the tablet as I put the finishing touches on a drawing I’ve been working on all week as a surprise for Seth. It’s Friday, and he’s back in New York City, but even with the physical distance, it feels like he’s right here with me. Last weekend was so wonderful, it was hard to say goodbye when he left Sunday evening. But this week has been easy in a way I didn’t know relationships could be. We share morning texts, middle-of-the-day check-ins, and late-night calls that stretch until one of us just about falls asleep midsentence. He’s coming for the weekend, and I’m excited to see him tonight.

I turn in my office chair and prop my socked feet up on the windowsill, returning my attention to the drawing. I strengthen the edge of the wooden spear, then soften the ripple of the shallow water. I can almost feel the heat of the Caribbean sun radiating off the page, so different from the winter-white sky breaking through the shivery dawn outside my window.

Lifting my stylus, I study the image of Missick as a lanky young teen, old enough to carry responsibility on his shoulders, young enough to enjoy the thrill of hunting with Seth. He’s wearing colorful bathing trunks, his bare feet blurry in the shallow water. One hand shades his squinting eyes from the sun, the other holds a hand-carved spear. Beside him, Seth crouches barefoot on a big rock in bright yellow shorts smeared with dirt, blue eyes full of determination and quiet worry, trying to be tough and cool for Missick’s sake, while silently praying he won’t have to hurt the fish. His thick, dark hair falls into his eyes, wild with a touch of curl from saltwater and humidity, black-framed glasses sliding down his sunburned nose. I’ve drawn him with one arm angled slightly in front of Missick, imagining that even back then he couldn’t help but keep the people he cared about safe.

Satisfied with the drawing, I’m about to sign it in my usual way, my initials in the lower left, but think better of it. Instead, I draw a tiny heart and write Ellie beside it.

I glance at the time. 6:45. Perfect.

Seth sounded exhausted after his evening run in the freezing cold last night. I swear there’s nothing that man can’t do. He’s got a big day of meetings ahead of him, and I want the picture to be the first thing he sees. I export the picture to my phone and text him.

Me: Good morning. I add a sunshine emoji. I couldn’t resist drawing you and Missick in your pre-empire days. Thank you for trusting me enough to share him with me.

I add a kissing emoji, attach the picture, and send it to him. I’m heading into the kitchen to refill my coffee mug when Seth calls. I gave him my personal phone number last weekend, and even after getting dozens of messages and several phone calls, seeing his name on the screen still makes me feel all warm and fluttery.

“Good morning, Mr. Braden,” I say on speaker.

“Hey, beautiful.” He sounds weak, raspy, and congested. “This picture is incredible, El. It looks just like we did back then. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but you sound terrible. How do you feel?”

“Like I’m dying,” he says weakly. “I think I’ve got a fever. I’m sorry, sweetheart, but I’m afraid I’m stuck here this weekend.”

“That’s okay. I’m sorry you’re sick. I’ll cancel your meetings. Do you want me to reschedule for next week?”

“That’d be great, assuming I survive the plague.”

I smile at that, so different from my father, who would insist he could push through the actual plague. “I’m pretty sure you’ll survive. Do you need anything? Do you have Tylenol or Motrin?”

“Yeah, I think I do, and the hospital isn’t far.”

“Hospital? How sick are you?”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.”

“You poor thing. It’s probably that twenty-four-hour bug that’s going around. What can I do?”

“Pray to the health gods,” he says. “Miss you, Ellie.”

“I miss you, too. Get some rest, and drink lots of fluids, okay?”

“I will. If I don’t answer later, send an ambulance.”

“Okay.” I laugh softly.

After we end the call, I rearrange Seth’s schedule, but I can’t stop thinking about him. He sounded awful, and I know how much it stinks to be sick when you’re alone. Unless you’re my father, who prefers it that way. Seth didn’t sound grumpy, just sick, so I pack a few cans of soup, a box of crackers, Tylenol and Motrin in case he doesn’t have any, cold medicine, the tin of tea he gave me, a jar of honey, and a thermometer. I send a quick text to my father, who is doing much better, and to Becca, letting them know I’m heading into the city.

I rarely come to the city. The traffic and sheer number of people make me a little uncomfortable, but Tribeca, where Seth lives, feels less chaotic. With cobblestone streets and old brick buildings that have been softened by glass and light, warehouses that have been rehabbed into pricy steel-infused lofts and glass-fronted apartments, it’s a perfect fit for a man like Seth.

The cold air bites at my fingers as I stand in front of his building. Even after the island, and all we’ve been through together in such a short amount of time, there’s still a part of me that can’t believe I’m here, about to go up to Seth’s home. My nerves prickle, and I have a fleeting moment of insecurity and debate turning around and going home. But that’s the younger girl in me that still believes if I wasn’t enough for my mother to stay, if I was too much for Cody, then I don’t deserve to be adored by someone as wonderful as Seth.

I hate that feeling, and I hate that I still have it after all these years, especially with him. He’s done nothing but show me he likes who I am and wants to be with me. I push through those old wounds and press the call button beside the door.

The intercom crackles softly, a camera lens blinking above it. My nerves flare again. I should have texted.

“Ellie?” His rough, tired voice startles me as it comes through the speaker.

“Hi. I was worried about you, so I brought you a few things.” I hold up the bag.