I pour myself into every letter, sharing everything about my new job and my new life in Atlanta, and then going back to a moment from my past I never told her about and describing it in detail.
I never want something I’ve held back to come between us again.
So, I fill her in on the darker parts of my childhood, the parts I deliberately left out when we were first dating, not wanting her to feel sorry for me or to expose old wounds that, at that point, hadn’t completely healed. I fill her in on the events of the summer after my mother left, and the first few months living with Uncle Parker. I tell her about learning there are worse things than a neglectful parent, like living with a man who resented the fact that you were even born. I tell her stories about my residency, the crazy people I met in the E.R., and the old woman who lived above my apartment during my first two years in New York, but died the third, and how my roommates and I had been the only people at her funeral.
I tell her about my last meeting with Parker and how much freer I feel, and how much I love my new workplace, but mostly I tell her that I love her.
And miss her.
And that no good thing is quite as good without her around to share it. I tell her that I need her and that I’m never going to stop needing her, and that I hope someday she’ll realize that she needs me, too.
But, truthfully, I’m not expecting that day to be any day soon. I saw how hurt she was, and Melody said Lark hasn’t mentioned my letters. For all I know, she could be tearing them up and throwing them in the garbage.
But still I write, hoping for the best, but expecting nothing to change for a long time.
Maybe ever.
So to say I’m surprised to look up from my freshly delivered Italian omelet to see Lark walking down the sidewalk in a white sundress toward me, looking like a sun-kissed angel, is an understatement. I’m stunned.
Dumbfounded.
Rendered speechless, motionless. All I can do is sit and stare as she draws closer.
I’m sure she’s going to walk right by me without noticing the man gaping behind the low, wrought iron fence surrounding The Root Cellar’s outdoor seating area, but then she stops. Just…freezes in the middle of the sidewalk, as if I’ve called her name. A beat later, she reaches for her sunglasses, pulling them from her face as she turns my way.
When her gaze connects with mine, her eyes widen and a tiny squeaking sound escapes her lips. She looks as shocked as I feel. I begin to suspect this is some terrible coincidence, that she didn’t come here to find me and that she’s going to make a break for her car any second, when she says—
“I was on my way to your place.”
—and my heart does a backflip in my chest.
I flick my notebook shut and stand, facing her across the fence.
“You were?” I ask, wanting to touch her so badly I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from reaching for her hand.
She nods, fidgeting with her purse strap. “I’ve…missed you.”
“Me, too,” I say quickly, my heart hammering harder. “So much. Every day.”
“And I…read your letters this morning.”
“You did?” I fight to keep my face expressionless. It’s too early to start celebrating. She might be here to tell me to quit writing, for all I know. The missing me part was good, but she looks so nervous I can’t be sure what this is about. Surely, if she’s read the letters, she has to know I’ll welcome her back in my life, any way she wants that to happen.
She nods again. “They helped me make an important decision.” She pulls in a shaky breath. “I mean, I’d already pretty much made the decision, or part of the decision—the most important part—but they helped me be certain I was making the right decision. You know what I’m saying?”
I shake my head, my pulse racing. “No, but you’d better tell me quick. I’m not sure my heart can take the suspense.”
“Oh. Right. I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see you here, and—” She flutters her hand anxiously. “I’m screwing this up.”
“You’re not screwing anything up.”
“I am,” she says, wincing. “I had it all planned, and now I have no idea what I’m saying. I’m babbling and you’re nervous and I’m nervous and—”
“I’m not nervous. I’m so happy to see you again, and…” I pull in a breath and risk adding, “And I hope I’ll be seeing more of you from here on out.”
“Me, too,” she says, holding my gaze, the tension slowly seeping from her features. “Your eyes always make me feel better.”