Page 360

I still don’t know whether that is enough.

Sleep doesn’t come before sunrise.

Charm’s answer takes six days.

During the first two, I tell myself mail between Michigan and Wisconsin is unpredictable. By the third, I start carrying my phone into the shower in case she decides a letter is unnecessary. On the fourth, I become angry at myself for asking. By the fifth, I’m angry at her for making me wait until I remember every letter I have allowed to sit unopened while I prepared myself to read it.

Briggs notices that night.

We are sitting on my kitchen floor with our backs against the cabinets because the table felt too formal for the bottle between us. His apartment is six doors away, but he has spent four nights in my guest room this month. Two were bad enough that I refused to let him leave. The others belonged to me.

“You could call her,” he says.

“I asked whether I would hear her voice. I didn’t ask permission to ambush her.”

“She might be waiting for you.”

“She knows where I am.”

“So do you.”

I turn the glass between my palms. “I spent our entire relationship asking Charm to tell me what she wanted before fear made the decision for her. I’m not taking this one away because waiting makes me uncomfortable.”

Briggs lifts the bottle in acknowledgment. “That sounded mentally healthy.”

“Fuck you.”

“You should write it down before it passes.”

I knock my shoulder into his. The movement makes liquor climb the side of his glass, and he catches it before it spills.

“She’ll answer,” he says.

“You don’t know that.”

“No, but you do.”

I look toward the drawer containing every letter she has sent.

Briggs follows my attention. “That’s why you’re still checking the mail.”

Her envelope arrives the following afternoon.

It is thick enough to require additional postage.

I carry it upstairs without opening it. My hands remain steady until I close my apartment door and see her name written across the corner. Charm’s handwriting has become less controlled with every letter. The words lean into one another now and crowd the margins whenever emotion outruns the space she allowed herself.

I sit at my desk, slide my finger beneath the seal, and unfold nine handwritten pages.

Ryan,

You asked whether you would ever hear my voice again.

Yes.

I’m answering that first because I know you will accuse me of avoiding the question if I make you read nine pages before finding it. You would be correct, and I refuse to give you the satisfaction.

You will hear my voice again.