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You asked whether I always knew I wanted to do this—to go into the sciences. In a way I did—I wasn’t sure exactly what, when I was younger, but I always loved plants, gardens and wild spaces, meadows and blooms and weird little environments and things that don’t grow where they should but keep hanging on and being stubborn. My mother’s an English teacher, my father was a civil engineer (retired now), and they always told us we could do whatever we wanted—my brother’s also a professor, statistics, so I guess we both got the teaching gene. I’ve been doing field work lately, though.
You said you weren’t an artist, but I think you’re wrong—sorry! I also have a confession. I might’ve finally looked up your name. And you make art, in everything—I saw those designs, that Rainbow Library, the way you smiled at the light through that window in that picture.You create something beautiful, that fits into the world and helps people—a house, a museum, an installation, a library. That’s gorgeous.
I’m going to apologize preemptively one more time, and please don’t take this as being patronizing, I’m hoping it’s not, feel free to tell me it’s out of line, but you said you maybe had a hard time going out to a bookshop? Is everything all right? And if it’s not, please don’t do anything that you don’t want to do, or that’s uncomfortable, just because of our letters. I mean I love the book and I love hearing from you! I dropped a sensor in a tide pool when Mike—that PhD candidate I mentioned—told me the mail came. But please just…be careful. I don’t know. Never mind. It’s too personal. This is me apologizing more. Ignore this whole paragraph.
You said you designed your house; can you tell me about it? Or send me a picture? I’d love to see what you designed for yourself, what elements you like—air and water, right? So you can see the ocean from where you are? I’m picturing a big wrap-around balcony and bookshelves everywhere and lots of light and big windows. Do you have a cat? I imagine you liking cats, I don’t know why. I like both cats and dogs—we had both growing up. No pets right now, though.
I wish I had books to send you, but they’ll have to be imaginary ones, from here. The book you sent has this in a picture, though, so here you go! It’s a blue-eyed grass flower; I like the color. And you like blue ink. Do you have a favorite color, or is that a tricky question, for a designer?
He signed this one with,Hope you’re having a good day, out there!and his name.
The boat would be back in two days. That was not soon enough. Burne left the envelope open in case he wanted to add anything—more flowers, a small wave-polished glint of sea-glass, his heart.
And then he waited. He mailed the letter, and he did some comparative analysis of root systems, and he read through his new book, warmed by history and botany and the knowledge that someone—his someone—had seen this art and thought about him.
Three days. Six. Which was fine; that had to be fine. Time for his own letter to arrive, time for Devon to read it, to write back. Time for Devon to mail a reply.
If Devon had been able to mail a reply. If Devon even wanted to: that’d been way too personal, Burne knew it had, and he shouldn’t’ve asked, should’ve let Devon explain or not, on his own terms. No pushing. No prying. What had he been thinking, asking?
Except he had, and he couldn’t take it back now. He could write again, an apology—but that’d be even worse. More shoving of himself into private space. More imposition, when he’d already been clumsy.
Seven days. Eight.
Nine days, and he woke up early even though the mail wouldn’t arrive for a few hours, and he made himself type up some preliminary notes for a paper about the unique variations of sea-grass subspecies, while trying not to bounce a leg or drum fingers against his desk or dart glances out his window.
He couldn’t focus. He grabbed a hair tie, pulled most of the shaggy waves back, told Mike he was going out for a minute, and went for a walk. Up the hill, behind the research station. Into the wind.
The hill rose in a gentle honeyed curve flecked with flowers, a constellation of pink and violet and amber against ruffled topaz skirts. Stalks bent and swayed; rocks sprouted like mystical remnants of a magicians’ battle. The sky and the ocean made twin azure mirrors, and for a moment Burne was the only person in the world, small and alone between curves of blue.
He hadn’t come far, maybe half a mile up the hill. The research station below held people, grant money, scientific equipment. He wasn’t by himself; if he wanted company, he could find someone to talk to about root systems, salinity, geology, weekly movie nights.
But the wind tugged at his hair, and the grasses bent with emotion. The mainland was sharply visible on this clear day, so near but so far, across the channel, over the water, someplace where Devon’s silence had put distance between them.
A gull swooped, called, lifted again. An echoing cry, against rocks and sand and waves.
A motion skimmed across the water. A boat, coming in.
Burne ran, until he got close, and then he tried not to look like he’d been running, and then he decided he didn’t care. He did make himself calm down and breathe before venturing casually into the front office and the mailboxes.
A letter. Right there. Waiting.
This envelope was smaller—no book, no art, then—but it was addressed by hand, in Devon’s familiar writing and favorite night-blue ink. Burne’s heart tried to open up and break and mend itself all at once.
He took his letter back to his office. He thought about going back up the hill, but the wind might try to steal Devon’s words. Even if they were angry words, they were for him, and they meant that Devon was here and writing and well enough to write. He couldn’t take the chance of losing any of them.
He shut his office door. His hair had come undone and was frizzing into his face; he shoved it back.
He opened his letter gingerly, like touching the edges of a bruise, a wound acquired in the service of a good memory. In the service of something—someone—he cared for.
Burne (and thank you; I think of you that way, ifthat’s all right to admit)—
First of all, apologies for the delay. I’ll explain, and I’m fine, I promise. Something more fun to begin with, though. My favorite color is blue, yes—all the shades of blue, but particularly the darkest midnight near-black, about to be onyx but not. Like storm clouds at night, with secret electricity hidden inside. I love the flower, which you probably guessed. Thank you for that, and for the little polished sea-glass. I’m thinking about flowers and meadows and glass as inspiration now, which is your fault.
I love the idea of you in the library—at home there, in any habitat, the way you are outside on a beach or in a classroom. Comfortable, wherever you are. Knowing who you are, where you fit into the world. I do also love libraries, so thank you for that mental image.
I like animals but I’ve never had pets—that’s related to the part I’ll get to in a moment. I love the portrait you have of me, though: in sunlight, on a balcony overlooking the sea, surrounded by books and art, with a small fluffy companion to be a friend. I would like that, I think.
At this point Devon had drawn a series of tiny kittens along the margin of the letter, and between paragraphs: tumbling, pouncing, leaping on yarn, batting at the ends of his own handwriting. Burne had the wildest impulse to kiss someone he’d never met.
