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“No,” Burne said aloud. “No, please—I’m asking, please tell me, I want to know. Devon. Please.” His letter, being only a letter, did not answer.
But it did, in the next paragraph. In a way he literally hadn’t imagined, in their magic spell of handwriting and envelopes.
I thought you might want something more immediate than the post? If you perhaps wanted to hear for yourself that I’m safe—oh, no, that sounds horribly self-important, I’m so sorry. If you want someone to talk to. To share unicorn jokes with. Or to tell me about your lab, since you’ve heard about my house. Here’s my email—personal, not the client contact—and my phone number. Also personal; that’s my mobile.
And that was an email. And a phone number. Burne needed to sit down. He was sitting down. He got up instead. Motion. Giddiness. Too much to contain.
I realize this is asking even more of you, but if you wanted to text or call, we could try that? I don’t know what day you’ll get this—I wish I did. I don’t normally have client meetings after five in the afternoon, but I do sometimes work fairly late into the night if I’m excited about a project. If you…oh, I don’t know. This is becoming a mess and I’m tempted to cross it all out.
He hadn’t, though.
Perhaps you could text first, and if I don’t answer, it’s not you, it’s that I’m working? I promise I’ll answer as soon as I see it! I don’t give that number to just anyone. Only about five people, in fact. Would that be all right? At least we’re in the same time zone.
I’m going to send this before I talk myself out of it. Thank you for everything—even if I’ve frightened you off now, and I’ll understand completely if I have, and I’m so sorry.
Even if I never hear from you again, please knowthat it meant something. That I’ve loved hearing about your work, and your family, and the way you love flowers. It’s felt so real, bringing your world to life for me. So thank you.
He’d signed it,Devon, in that familiar flowing signature. And added a rolling ball of yarn, skidding under his name: batted by one of the tumbling marginalia kittens.
Burne’s heart broke into pieces on that signature. He knew it did: he felt it. Like the time he’d dropped one of his grandmother’s teacups, moving it to the sink. Porcelain shards, splintering.
Devon. His Devon. So afraid—the fear and the resignation in those last lines stabbed and twisted. Afraid that Burne would never write back, would think this was too much, when no, no, it was the opposite, it was rawness and vulnerability and giving of self, and God, everything Devon must’ve gone through and fought through and faced down—
To be that courageous, in his letters—to share himself with Burne, with someone only known through words and sentences, books and sketches—
Devon was braver than he was. A hero.
Burne reread those last paragraphs. Porcelain shards through his heart, his hands, all over again. But—
But Devon, being exactly that brave and that wonderful, had given him that last gift. Connection. Contact. Such hope, reaching out. Being the one to ask, to take that step, to build that bridge.
Burne would meet him there. Not even a question.
Besides, he already had an idea.
Chapter 4
Burne texted around two in the afternoon. Devon, trapped in the depths of a board of trustees video conference, did not see it right away.
He finished explaining the changes to his own proposed plans—softer angles, shapes like waves or ruffled long grass for the roof, that gradual curving entry on the approach to the museum, not sharper steps—and listened to trustees fall all over themselves to half-agree, because having Devon Lilian design their building was an honor, really it was, whatever he wanted, but had he thought about the budget? Devon said patiently, “Yes, it’s within the same budget, only reallocations, I’ve sent you that too,” and waited while they all remembered how to perform simple tasks like reading their email.
They agreed, after that.
After the call ended, he leaned back in his chair, stretching; his shoulder and elbow remained sore. Not badly so, but stiff. At least that wasn’t his preferred drawing hand.
He caught sight of his phone, under a snowy corner of blueprints. With the edge of a visible notification.
He lunged for it. Three entirehoursago—what if Burne thought he didn’t want to answer—
He hadn’t been sure how soon his own letter would arrive. He’d had several bouts of after-the-fact panic. Had he really babbled about cats? Made awful puns? Drawn a flower, as if that would help anything?
Had he really given Burne his phone number, after a disastrous stream-of-consciousness essay on his own health and how much he loved their letters? Had he really used the wordlove, as if that wouldn’t scare any rational person away?
Burne had opened the text with,Hi Devon, it’sBurne Cameron—you extended the invitation, so I’m taking you up on it! I know you said you’d be working, so don’t worry about answering right away. For whenever you get this, here are a couple of pictures—not that kind of pictures, oh my God, sorry! This first one’s an island fox because you like animals. The other one’s my lab because you asked. The equipment does soil and rock and ocean water analysis! It’s pretty cool.
The first photo was indeed a fox: small, sandy-brown, bushy-tailed, slipping between tall golden sheaves of grass. It had alert dark ears, and Burne had caught it in motion, intently trotting ahead, ignoring the human behind the camera. He’d got impressively close.
Burne must have been sitting out in the grass himself, in the sun. Another light-drenched creature, not a threat, only part of the scene.
