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Melinda grabbed the envelope from Melisa’s hand a millisecond early, but then she froze.
There was her name written on the outside. A simple word. Written with what? Haste? Urgency? Emotion? Rejection? Pity? Her eyes burned holes into the angled, blockish letters.
This is ridiculous, her mind offered helpfully. Open it! She turned the envelope over to reveal the flap, released the small patch of stuck adhesive, and drew out Grant’s letter.
Melinda,the first page began—first page? Yes, it appeared the first page was addressed to her and a second page was addressed to the police—and the noise of the restaurant faded. Melisa disappeared. Even the table with its uneven tile and her stiff-backed wrought-iron bistro chair melted away.
Melinda,
I hope you’re all right with me writing to you. I wanted to say a few things, and Melisa suggested writing them down.
Writing you is harder than I thought it would be. Not because I’m not thinking of you, because I am. I’m thinking of you every minute. But I don’t know what you’re going through and I don’t want to complicate your life.
I want you to know that if you need me, I’m there. If you want to ask me anything, all you have to do is call me. Talk to Melisa, she knows how to reach me. But if that never happens, I want you to know that meeting you changed my life. I had been living in a kind of okay state for a long time. For years, I guess. I hadn’t been willing to go the ultimate distance and pass through old pain into the next level.
Our car ride together showed me that I have some issues to work on. I’m sorry for that, and I also have to have gratitude for you for that realization. I wish you hadn’t suffered so much in order for me to recognize that jealousy was rearing its head, and so was fear.
Our time at the cabin together showed me that I’m ready to take the next step in loving a woman where it isn’t destined to fail right from the start. Not that it was their fault. It was always mine. I was the one who chose them again and again.
I don’t want you to feel like you have to make me feel better or that you can’t go to the police. You need to do what’s best for you and for what’s going to help you sleep at night. I’m ready every day to hear from them.
But not talking with you feels like drowning. Because it’s not any woman I want to be with. It’s you. I want to be with you, only you. I’m scared just writing that, but I also feel better getting it out.
Whatever you need from me, I’ll be there.
Grant, your mountain man.
~
Grant swung the maul and exploded the log in front of him. Shards and splinters flew at his legs and three split pieces dropped to the ground. He didn’t trust himself to drive the plow, and besides, the snowfall had stopped after their rescue. Bryan and his team could handle it. And what if those felled trees didn’t get dealt with? The whole property would go to ruin.
Keep lying to yourself as you waste a perfectly good Friday afternoon, Samson.
Wow, was he full of shit. His dad thought so, too, and made no attempt to sugarcoat it. The Sunday after he returned, Grant had finally come clean about what had happened at Paul’s cabin.
“Well, what the hell is wrong with you, Rant?” Buck Samson had wasted no time in dusting off Grant’s childhood nickname. Not a good sign.
“What?” Grant had snapped the ends off a handful of green beans and chucked them in a bowl like he wasn’t actively pondering that same question. They were ostensibly spending time cooking together, father and son, seeker and confidant. But Grant had a suspicion he was in for a tribunal instead of a supportive shoulder.
“Go after the girl, that’s what.” Buck slid a sheet of chunked beets, yams, sweet and purple potatoes, and onions into the oven. Grant’s dad had gone vegan after his mother died, and even though Grant hadn’t, he enjoyed the creativity his dad mustered up. They’d roast the root vegetables, steam the beans, and eat the leftover squash soup from the night before. All in all, a comforting meal for a winter night.
Grant had pondered his father’s words all night long and wondered if his dad wasn’t right. Should he go after the girl? What did that even mean? Go after her. It sounded like a risky proposition; he’d already done that, in a manner of speaking, and it left him waiting for the sheriff to arrive.
What could he say to her that he hadn’t said already? He’d texted her the first night they’d been home. He’d been nearly climbing the walls from being away from her after such close quarters. She hadn’t replied.
Grant hadn’t slept that Sunday night after his dad’s insights. He decided it was time to check on Paul again. Because all good friends call each other at 7:00 a.m. on a Monday, don’t they?
“You again. I’ll get Melisa,” Paul had said, disgusted.
“No!” Grant had yelled. Shit. “Don’t get—Oh, hey Melisa.” Grant’s voice was a full octave higher than normal. He cleared his throat to find his bass. “Yes, well, I was wondering if you’d talked with Melinda. To see how she’s doing. You know, to check on her?” Not because he missed her body like a phantom limb. Not because he yearned to pour her a glass of wine and talk with her by the light of a fire somewhere.
Melisa’s silence was the answer he’d dreaded. “It’s okay, it’s fine... Yeah, fine,” he babbled. “She had a rough time and I just thought maybe she’d want to talk with you. But, hey, no news is good news, right?”
“Grant...” Melisa’s reply was measured. “Do you think maybe you’d like to talk with her?”
Was it that obvious? Nah, probably only from space.
“I mean, yeah, sure, I guess. To see how she’s doing. If she needs any help.”
