A Letter to Delilah

by Jaxson Kidman

  I wasn’t sure if he remembered my name.

  “The shortened version of the story… my roommate and someone she knows, who runs a blog or site or something, thought it would be a good idea to have me come here and interview you and write up a story. Because that’s going to suddenly make me want to write again and chase down the dream I gave up.”

  “Why’d you give up the dream?” Josh asked.

  His hand was still wrapped tightly around mine.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just did.”

  “So, if you’re going to lie to me, does that mean I can lie to you?” he asked.

  “Whatever you want,” I said. “I have no idea if I’m going to write anything at all.”

  “So then why’d you come?”

  “To see what you’ve been up to.”

  “What I’ve been up to, huh?”

  “Yeah. Is that a problem?”

  “You see what I’ve been up to,” Josh said.

  He slowly peeled the flask out of my hand.

  He took another big drink from it.

  “Can I ask you about your work out there?” I asked.

  “You just did.”

  “So tell me about it. The one with the trees. Reaching for each other. It looks like you took a picture of a wide-open field and then added the trees by hand. But they’re not regular trees though. Each has their own… personality?”

  “That’s what you see, huh?” Josh asked.

  “Is that what you want everyone to see?”

  He grinned. “Tell me more about these stories then. You’re a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Then what do you write?”

  “I used to write.”

  “What did you used to write?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’m here to talk about you.”

  “And I don’t have to talk to anyone.”

  “I guess you don’t,” I said.

  “You don’t even want to write. You don’t even give a shit about being here. Maybe you shouldn’t be here then.”

  Josh started to walk away.

  I froze for a few seconds but then lunged forward. “What happened to you?”

  He paused. He looked back. “What?”

  “What happened? How did you get here? Forget the paintings. The pictures. Forget the scene out there. What about you?”

  “Are you asking as a writer or something else?”

  “Maybe a friend.”

  “A friend, huh? Is that what we were?”

  “I don’t know. But I remember you being there. And then you weren’t. And now you’re here.”

  “The same for you,” Josh said. “There and gone. Me saving you. And that was always that. You want to know about the trees? You already know about the trees. Go write about it. Look at everything out there and look deeper. Create your story.”

  “The story is about you, Josh.”

  “And I tell that story. Always.”

  “You’re not telling it to me.”

  “Count the years. You think you know what you’re saying. But you don’t. Go write a book. Make something up.”

  “You’re drunk. You don’t want to be out there. You’re the one that doesn’t want to be here.”

  Josh laughed and slowly clapped. “She broke the case, folks. Give her a detective’s shield and let her solve murders.”

  I swallowed hard. “Do you even care what anyone writes about you?”

  “No,” he said without hesitation.

  He started to walk again, head down.

  He slipped his flask into his back pocket.

  I watched him exit through the back door.

  When he was gone, I gave a wave.

  Good to see you again, Josh.

  I wandered through the gallery and took notes and pictures of everything.

  It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t supposed to be. I could humor Bel and write up a story about the artwork, what it looked like and what it made me feel. I could write about the people and conversations I heard. And if need be, I could write about my dark hallway encounter with Josh.

  Dark and brooding, sipping from a flask - no, gulping from a flask - trying to chase away the sounds of those there to see him. When, in reality, all he wants is those there to see him through the artwork he’s created. Most don’t have the eyes or ability to see what’s really there. Too worried about a drink, a conversation, the smell of the person next to them, the kind of things that artwork should make a person forget about.

  I was rolling my eyes in my head as I walked through the gallery one last time before leaving.

  There was a part of me that thought about talking to the lady who owned the gallery. To try and get more information about Josh from her, but there was this feeling in the pit of my stomach that said to just leave. If Josh didn’t want to be bothered, so be it. In a way I owed him that much.

  Bel would get her dumb story from me and I could tell Grace to never do that to me again.

  If I wanted to write something, I would do it on my time. It would be my story to write. Definitely not an article. Not some non-fiction thing that would get posted on a blog and never seen.

  I slipped into the night without being seen, turning alongside the outside of the building.

  That’s when I saw something on the ground.

  It looked like a folded-up piece of paper.

  My curiosity stopped me, and I crouched down to pick it up. I unfolded it just once to see if there was any money or credit cards. Or identification. The storyteller in my mind had been unleashed for one night, so I felt jumpy as I wanted to open the piece of paper.

  It’s a piece of paper, Amelia. It’s probably directions to the gallery. Or a printed receipt of something. It’s nothing.

  Even still, I caught myself walking along the building, waiting for the right time to open it. All the while I continued to think about Josh. As though I was supposed to be chasing after him. To get some kind of story. Like he was a criminal and I was going to do what he said. Crack the case. Become a detective.

  It was stupid.

  Actually, it was embarrassing.

  When I got to the back of the building, there was a small spark of something that said I’d see Josh again. That he would be outside, drinking, waiting.

  It was empty.

  Nobody there but me.

  Me holding a letter.

  I quickly opened the piece of paper to appease my mind.

  That’s when I realized it was a letter.

  To Delilah,

  No matter how hard I try to forget, each time I close my eyes, I see you. I see you standing in a blue dress at the top of a hill on a spring afternoon, surrounded by daisies. The way you reached down and gently touched them, not wanting to touch too hard. Your heart floated around you faster than the clouds that made the wind grab your hair. You walked into a world you didn’t create but you create a world for everyone else to walk into.

  I never knew what it felt like to love instantly until I saw you. There’s something so simple in that, but it’s not simple at all. Imagine you’re walking down a path. A perfectly clear path. There’s only one direction to go. Tall trees on your left. Taller trees on your right. And there’s this path. You just keep walking the path. You know if you go into the trees, you’ll get lost. So, you stay on the path.

  Then you blink.

  Just a normal blink.

  And now it’s all different.

  The path is gone.

  You’re standing on a beach.

  Sand everywhere.

  You’re barefoot.

  Sand between your toes.

  The ocean waves smacking the shore with a beautiful sound.

  And all you can do is ask… ‘how did this happen?’… but you’re asking with a smile on your face because it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

  That’s you, Delilah.

  You’re the ocean. The waves. The horizon. The sunrise and sunset against
the wall, defying all process of life and infinite space. You’re the hope, the danger, the sadness, the love. Except you’re not sadness, Delilah. I’m sadness. You’re happiness.

  And that’s why you’re gone.

  I get why you had to fly, Delilah. In my dreams, I mean. Why you had to fly. That’s what you wanted. I never told anyone about that. About you wanting to fly. The way the wind made you feel. The way I would stand close to you without you knowing and wait for the wind. Because it made you smile. And it let me smell your hair.

  I folded the letter in half over my hands.

  I took a deep breath.

  A deep, shaky breath.

  I looked around, not sure what to do next.

  I wanted to finish the letter.

  In a way I had to finish the letter.

  But this wasn’t my letter. It wasn’t meant for me to read. It was meant for someone named Delilah to read. I wasn’t Delilah.

  Then again, the way the person who wrote this letter loved Delilah…

  I wished I was her.

  I walked out of my bedroom, my eyes weary and bloodshot. I knew I looked like some kind of hell, but when Grace saw me, her eyes went wide with what looked like fear.

  “What happened to you?” she asked.

  “That bad?”

  “Have you been crying?”

  “No,” I said.

  I lied.

  The letter made me cry.

  It made me weep like a baby.

  I read it ten times, easily.

  The letter made me sit at my laptop and write. Not the story of Josh and his artwork. But the story of Delilah. This woman who was so wildly loved by this other person. And the thing was… I couldn’t figure out what happened. What the ending was. Why they weren’t together anymore. Because if a man loved Delilah as much as this letter showed, then how could Delilah not love him back?

  In a way, it made me mad at her. Someone I didn’t know.

  In another way, it made me wonder if she…

  “You were up writing,” Grace said, cutting into my thoughts as I poured a cup of coffee.

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “That’s great. I knew this would work.”

  I looked at her, ready to tell her I wasn’t writing anything for Bel. Yet. But I knew Grace. She knew how to twist anything to benefit her. Plus, if it wasn’t for her doing what she did, I wouldn’t have found the letter.

  “Did you talk to Bel yet?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ll call her.”

  “Don’t,” I snapped and reached for her. “Please. Don’t.”

  “Okay. Sorry.” Grace shook her head. “I’m excited for you. I’m used to guiding people along, as far as they can go. Almost motherly to them, you know? But not you, Amelia. You’re strong. Smart. You know things that you don’t even realize you know.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” I asked.

  “That. Right there.” Grace laughed. “You’re tough. I like that about you. You’re hard to crack. But this… this writing… it’s breaking you open a little. I like it.”

  I forced a quick smile and lifted my mug. “Then I guess it’s cheers to you, Grace.”

  “No, Amelia. It’s cheers to you. Open that door the rest of the way. Don’t hold back on anything. Because as that door opens, you’re going to want to take a step out. And that first step is going to change every-”

  “I think I need to go back there,” I blurted out. “I’m going to go back there and get the rest of the story. The day after. What it looks like. What it feels like.”

  “Right,” Grace said. “Whatever you need to do. I like it. I like everything you’re doing.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  I took my coffee and rushed back to my bedroom.

  The letter rested comfortably on my bed.

  I sat on my bed, bending my left leg, hugging it.

  I sipped the coffee and stared down at the letter.

  … I know there are words you haven’t spoken. Your voice isn’t clear. Not the way you want. Or deserve. Nobody can hear you. But I promise you, Delilah, I can hear you. I always hear you. These paths… I hate them. I hate that I wrote of paths above, because I want no paths. I want just us. Just the open freedom…

  I put my hand to the letter.

  It was so foolish that this meant something to me.

  Yet there I was, a complete sucker for a love letter.

  But there was so much more to it.

  The story behind the love letter. And how it ended up left in an alley. Was it thrown there on purpose? Was it lost by accident? And why that spot? Those were the questions worth asking and try to figure out. That’s where the truth was hidden.

  I had the day off from work.

  I could type something up for Bel in no time. Appease her to appease Grace to appease myself.

  That was for later.

  Now… I needed to go back to where I found the letter.

  Chapter 8

  Your Wake-Up Call

  NOW

  (Josh)

  I felt a hand slap my face.

  My eyes popped open and Toby was staring at me.

  “Toby?” I asked. “Little man? What are you doing here?”

  “The real question is, what are you doing here?”

  I rolled to my back and saw Rae standing over me. She had a coffee mug in her hand. I blinked a few times to try and wake the hell up.

  Above Rae was the black and white drop ceiling that only existed in her and Aaron’s basement.

  Which meant…

  “Ah, damn,” I whispered. “Are you going to pour coffee on me now?”

  “It’s tempting,” Rae said. “But then I’d have to walk back upstairs to get more.”

  “So that’s not for me?”

  “Nope.”

  “No breakfast in bed?”

  “You’re not in a bed, Josh. You’re on my couch in the basement.”

  I looked around and nodded. “Yeah, I see that. So, no breakfast on the couch?”

  “Not a chance in hell,” she said.

  I put my right foot to the floor, and I forced myself to sit up. My head instantly throbbed, which I expected after all the brandy. That shit was like motor oil. It was not meant to be consumed the way I had done.

  Sitting up, I looked back at Rae again.

  “Not even a good morning kiss?” I asked her.

  She snorted. “Your bromance is upstairs. Go kiss him.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  I looked down at Toby as he just stood there, staring at his hungover Uncle Josh.

  I grabbed him and sat him on my lap. I moved his messy hair back from his forehead and looked for a mark or bump from him hitting his head against mine.

  There was none.

  “He’s fine,” Rae said.

  “Good.”

  She walked around the couch and sat down next to me and sighed. “I don’t get you sometimes.”

  “Nobody does, Rae,” I said. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  “Do I look like I’m beating myself up here?” she asked.

  I eyed her up and down. Her blue pajama shirt went with the checkered pattern of her pajama pants.

  “I guess not,” I said.

  “You were really worried about Toby’s head,” she said.

  “Of course I was. We were standing at a painting and I got him to say red. Then he started saying red flower. He turned his head to point to the painting and smacked his head off mine. I felt horrible, Rae. I mean it.”

  Rae touched my shoulder. “I know. That’s the hardest part about knowing you, Josh.”

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “That underneath it all, you really do care.”

  “Is this you telling me you like me?”

  “Hardly,” she said. “I tolerate you. For Aaron’s sake.”

  I leaned in and bumped shoulders with her. “Nah. You can play that game all you want. I know how you re
ally feel.”

  Rae pushed from the couch and stood up. “Hey, Toby, let’s go upstairs. Give Uncle Josh a chance to wake up a little more.”

  I kissed the top of Toby’s head and messed with his hair. Rae put her hand out and Toby ran to his mother.

  “Thanks for the wake-up call,” I called to Rae. I puckered and blew her a kiss.

  She just shook her head.

  I was pretty sure she really did hate me. Which I understood. But she saw me for me. I respected her for that.

  As Rae climbed the basement steps, she yelled obviously loud, “Aaron! It’s awake and hungover!”

  I laughed.

  But it was a short-lived laugh.

  The night before rested heavily inside my head.

  I never thought I would see her again.

  Back then, her avoiding me was for her own good.

  And now… it was basically the exact same thing.

  Aaron met me with a smile and some coffee. He pointed to the silver flask on the counter. “Not sure anything is left in that thing.”

  “Screw that thing,” I said.

  “Looks expensive.”

  “It’s not even mine. I stole it.”

  “Typical,” Aaron said. “Is that why you came here? Afraid the police were after you?”

  “Over a flask? I doubt it. It belongs to someone I know.”

  Aaron inched back and leaned against the counter. “So last night went well from what I heard. I talked to Sasha and-”

  “Why the hell were you talking to her?” I asked.

  “You know my company takes care of the entire building,” he said. “Half the block, actually. I’ve gotten to know everyone who owns property there.”

  “Well, aren’t you just something special,” I said. “What’s next, bro? A career in politics?”

  Aaron snorted. “Not a fucking chance. I’m good with what I do. But enough about me. What happened to you?”

  “With what?”

  “Come on, man. I’m your best friend. Shit went sideways last night. And fast.”

  “After your girl tore me apart…”

  Aaron swallowed hard. “That’s not fair.”

  “What isn’t?” I asked. “I was showing the kid some stuff and he bumped his head.”