Filled with sudden, urgent purpose, I lunge for the phone by my bed and jab in Melody’s number.
My sister answers after the third ring with a sleepy-sounding, “Hello?”
“Melody, it’s me. I have an important question for you.”
“Lark? Is everything okay?”
“I was just wondering if you and Aria can handle the bridal shower this afternoon alone?”
Melody yawns. “Um…yeah. I think so. The cake and cookies are done and most of the apps prepped, right?”
“Right.” I swing my feet off the side of the bed and pad across the room to my closet. “And Aria is on serving dish duty. The only thing you’ll have to do is grill the bacon-wrapped duck bites about ten minutes after the guests start to arrive.”
“I can handle that,” Melody says. “So what’s up? Did you catch Natalie’s cold?”
“Um…sort of.” I grab my sleeveless white sundress from its hanger. “I’m definitely going to see a doctor.”
“You should,” Melody says. “Natalie called last night, said she felt awful until she took time to rest up. This isn’t something you want to mess around with.”
“I agree, I’m heading to the doctor now,” I say, though I doubt Mason has office hours on Sundays. I’ll just have to show up at his new place for a house call. Thanks to his letters, I have the address.
“Okay. Good.” Melody yawns again. “You want me to call Aria and tell her what’s up?”
“Yes, please, could you? That would be great.”
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, dropping the phone back in its cradle as I race into the bathroom to get dressed, grateful my hair dried in smooth waves instead of curly on one side, flat on the other, the way it sometimes does when I go to bed with wet hair. I don’t want to waste any more time getting pretty than I absolutely have to.
Now that I’ve decided to go to Mason, I can’t get to him fast enough.
But there is one thing I have to do first…
As soon as I’m dressed, I fix a single serve cup of coffee and sit down with the pile of Mason’s letters. By the time I finish the first, I know I’m making the right decision. By the end of the second, I’m sniffling, and by the end of the third, I’m cursing myself for being so pig-headed.
The love Mason feels for me is present in every line, his commitment obvious in the letters that kept coming, week after week, always long and thoughtful, even when I refused to respond.
He loves me, he wants a future together, and he’s willing to do whatever it takes to earn my trust, even if it takes a year’s worth of letters. Two years. Three. He swears he’ll keep writing until I agree to see him again, and by the time I finish reading, I believe him.
I close the last letter with a determined breath.
Melody and Aria are right. It’s time for me to grow up and do the work. Mason can only take the healing so far on his own. Now it’s my turn. My turn to prove that my love for him is more powerful than my fear, to prove that I’m brave and ready to put my money where my mouth is.
Luckily, several clients sent in their deposits last week. My bank account is in a healthy place, and I can afford a splurge in the name of love.
Now, to find a store that’s open on Sunday mornings…
I pull out my laptop and do some searching, finding what I’m looking for in a shopping center about three blocks from Mason’s condo. Five minutes later, I’m in my car on the way to Atlanta, my hands shaking with nerves, my jaw tight with excitement, and my heart aching with hope that today will be the day that changes everything, the first day of the rest of my no-longer-lonely life.
Chapter 26
Mason
A week after I moved into my new place, I found the perfect brunch spot.
It’s a hole in the wall three blocks from my condo complex called The Root Cellar that serves obscenely good omelets, pancakes, and French press coffee in carafes the waiters leave on your table so you can enjoy it down to the last, gritty drop.
It’s busy during the breakfast rush, especially on Sundays, but the staff doesn’t mind if you linger at one of the outdoor tables on the sidewalk. And so, every Sunday, I buy the paper and head to The Root Cellar with my favorite pen and a spiral notebook to eat breakfast, drink too much coffee, and write Lark her weekly letter.
At first, I was worried that I might run out of things to say—being as addicted to email as everyone else, I haven’t written a real letter in years—but I find the process strangely soothing. By the end of the first page, I connect to the words, and by the end of the second, I connect to Lark. I can imagine the look on her face as she reads each line, the parts where she might smile, and the parts that would make her bite her lip and put on her thinking face.