The Casanova (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “Wow.” I smile into the view, stare out for a while, and then my mind goes to Elliot back home . . . and I can almost feel his panic. I know he’ll be worried.

  But I can’t think of him right now. For once in my life, I have to put myself first.

  I understand what he told me yesterday, that he loves me and that he didn’t do anything with his beloved artist. And maybe if he had come straight home after he saw her I would have forgiven him and moved on.

  But he took a week to convince himself that he wanted to be with me. To talk himself into his so-called happiness. If he loved me as he said he does, there would have been no soul-searching to arrive at that decision. He would have come straight home . . . to me.

  I hate that he didn’t.

  I get a vision of us laughing and making love and of all the wonderful late-night deep and meaningful conversations we had in bed, and my heart hurts.

  For a while there, I let myself believe that we had something special.

  I exhale sadly; but it wasn’t to be.

  Elliot Miles isn’t the only one who wants the happily-ever-after with someone extraordinary . . . and guess what, I’m waiting for it.

  Even if it kills me . . . and the way I feel now, it just might.

  “Hello.” I smile at the kind-looking waiter. “I’m here to see Steven about the waitress position.”

  I’ve been here for four days and can’t stomach the thought of going back. I called the real-estate agent and the place I’m staying at now is coming up for long-term rent.

  I’m going to stay for a while and put some roots down while I sort myself out.

  “Hi.” He smiles as he wipes down the bar. “I’m Steven.”

  “Hi.” I feel so awkward, and I clutch my résumé in my hands with white-knuckle force.

  “Have you ever waitressed before?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Ever been in hospitality?”

  “Nope.”

  “What do you normally do?”

  “IT.” I twist my fingers in front of me. “Computer analysis.”

  He frowns. “What are you doing here?”

  “Honestly?” I shrug. “I broke up with my boyfriend and ran away. I figure Lanikai is a pretty amazing place to stay for a few months while I lick my wounds and get my shit together.”

  Oh no . . . I wrecked it.

  He smiles broadly. “It is. I did that five years ago and never left. When can you start?”

  “Today.”

  The sound of the ocean laps at the shore and I smile into the sun as I walk along.

  This place is heaven.

  And not just because it was my escape plan.

  For the first time in a long time, probably since my parents died, I feel proud of myself.

  I’ve pushed myself way out of my comfort zone.

  I didn’t want to stay in London; my gut told me to leave.

  There were too many questions between us, too little trust on my behalf.

  Even though I wanted to stay and fight for us, I knew that I needed this time alone.

  To regroup and find out who I am again.

  It’s as if I’m finally coming into my own. I’ve lived in the shadow of my parents’ death for seven dark years . . . but somehow, this new heartache over Elliot has snapped me out of it.

  For a long time, I wanted a change, but I was always too cautious and scared, then this happened and suddenly without hesitation I moved to the other side of the world. I was tired of IT so I now work nights in a restaurant.

  Everything I’ve been pushing through over the last few years, the staleness and boredom . . . I don’t feel it anymore.

  I wake up every day renewed, a little sad . . . but still, excited for what’s coming.

  I’ve been doing yoga as the sun comes up on the beach; I swim in the ocean and lie in the sun. I go for a big walk and then have an afternoon nap. At night, I go to work in the restaurant. It’s fun and easy and the people there are so nice.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” a man says as he rides past me on a pushbike.

  “Sure is.” I smile as I get to the row of shops in town. This place is so lovely and quaint, and I come here most afternoons to buy my food for the following day.

  I walk past a hobby shop and stop and look through the window: what’s in there?

  I’ll take a look, so I walk in and a bell rings over the door.

  “Hello.” An elderly woman smiles.

  “Hi.”

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  “Just looking,” I reply. I walk through the cross-stitch section and smile sadly as I look at all the patterns. My mum would have loved this shop.

  When I was a teenager we used to spend hours together in the garden house, and she would do her cross-stitch and I would paint. We would laugh and talk and listen to music. I smile as I remember making her play Taylor Swift on repeat for hours and hours.

  I pick up a cross-stitch pattern of a duck and I smile as I think of Elliot and his girls. Maybe I should learn how to do cross-stitch? It could be an ode to my mum. I look through all the patterns, but end up back at the ducks.

  I want this one; I liked those bat-shit crazy ducks of Elliot’s. I remember the day they attacked him and it brings a smile to my face. I tuck the packet under my arm and keep looking.

  “All the art supplies are marked down by fifty percent,” the old lady calls.

  “Oh, thanks.” I keep walking. “I haven’t painted since high school.”

  “You should start again, it’s the best therapy.” She smiles.

  Hmm, I guess it could be. I mean, if I’m learning how to cross-stitch, I guess I could paint a picture too. I’m totally crap at it . . . but it would make me feel close to Mum, by association.

  She always loved my paintings, said every new painting I did was her new favorite. Isn’t that what all mums say to their kids about their hideous hobbies?

  I pick up a packet of paintbrushes and a starter pack of ten tubes of paint, go to the back and look through the canvases. Shit . . . these are expensive.

  Did Mum really pay this much? I smile, knowing exactly why she did: so that I would sit with her while she did her cross-stitch. There was a method to her madness, after all.

  I pick up a small canvas, which will be easier to fit into the bin when I fuck it up.

  I take my things to the cashier, and I feel really excited for tomorrow. When I get back from the beach, I’m going to start learning how to do my cross-stitch, just like Mum. How fun.

  ELLIOT

  “Your paintings have arrived, Mr. Miles,” Andrew says from the door.

  I look up from my computer. “What?”

  “Your Harriet collection has arrived out of storage, I know how much you missed it.”

  I run my hand through my hair in disgust. “Oh.” I pause.

  I don’t want to be anywhere near those paintings; I left Kate for those.

  All they do is remind me of what I no longer have.

  My girl.

  “Umm.” I pause as I try to articulate my answer. “My apologies, Andrew, can you have them delivered to my apartment in London please?”

  Andrew’s face falls. “But—”

  “But nothing,” I cut him off. “I don’t want them in this house.”

  He frowns as he stares at me.

  “That is all, Andrew,” I snap, dismissing him.

  “Very well, sir.”

  I inhale a shaky breath and go back to my computer.

  This is fucked.

  KATE

  I walk up the road to my house and see a car pulled up outside. I frown and, as I get closer, I see it’s a mail delivery van.

  “Can I help you?” I ask the driver.

  “Yes, I’m looking for a Pinkie Leroo, does she live here?”

  My heart skips a beat; he knows where I am.

  Is he here? My eyes flick around suspiciously. “What do you have for her?” I ask.

  “A letter.�
�� He holds up a red envelope and I can see Elliot’s handwriting on the front of it.

  Oh . . .

  “Yes, I’m Pinkie,” I reply.

  “Can I get you to sign here? It’s certified.”

  “Sure.” Damn control freak wants to make sure I got it. I sign for it and he hands it over.

  “Bye Pinkie,” he says as he gets into his car.

  “Thanks. Bye.”

  I look at the letter in my hand.

  Miss Pinkie Leroo

  98 Grosvenor Street

  Mayweather, Oahu.

  I turn it over and look at the back for the sender.

  Edgar Moffatt

  Garbologist Extraordinaire

  Enchanted Kingdom

  I smirk. Garbologist extraordinaire . . . idiot.

  I walk back inside and put the envelope on the countertop.

  I’m not reading it.

  It’s 11 p.m. when I walk in the door and I go straight to the envelope and pick it up. Work was so busy tonight and I was torturing myself the entire shift wondering what this says.

  How does he know where I am?

  I pick up the envelope and stare at it. What does he want? There’s only one way to find out.

  Fuck it.

  I tear open the envelope.

  My dearest Pinkie,

  In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.

  To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.

  I frown: what the hell?

  I turn the envelope upside down and a tiny spray bottle falls out onto the countertop.

  I pick it up and read the little label.

  Elliot Miles—Love Potion.

  I roll my lips to suppress my smile, hold it to my nose, and close my eyes as a flood of memories runs through me. It’s Elliot’s aftershave.

  Hmmm.

  I read on.

  I’m writing to you with the greatest of news, you are to be a GG, also known as a Goat Grandma.

  I put my hand over my mouth and burst out laughing. What the hell?

  The veterinarian has just left and he has confirmed my suspicions. Gretel your goat is pregnant. The expected arrival date is in 40 days, and I can’t wait.

  Finally, some good news.

  I hope you are well?

  I hope you know how much of my strength it’s taking to not come to you.

  Please know how much you are missed.

  Forever yours,

  Elliot

  ox

  Short and sweet. My heart swells and I bite my lip.

  I pick up the tiny spray bottle and hold it to my nose . . . smells like heaven.

  Elliot Miles.

  I read the letter again . . . and again, and then I do as he asks.

  I spray the letter with his cologne.

  And with a big smile on my face, and the scent of Elliot Miles swimming around me, I read it again.

  Chapter 26

  I smile as I mix the paint in my palette; who knew I would love this so much.

  It’s taken me back to a time when I was happy and carefree . . . I also have to admit, Elliot’s letter yesterday has lifted my spirits.

  He gets it.

  He could have come here and talked me around and dragged me home . . . but he’s letting me work this out for myself.

  I hear a car pull up and I go and look out of the window. It’s the van. I smile.

  I open the door in a rush to see the delivery driver get out of his van with another red envelope.

  “Pinkie?” he calls.

  “That’s me.” I beam.

  “Two letters in two days, someone’s getting spoilt. Sign here please.”

  I sign with a smile on my face. “What was your name?” I ask.

  “Richard.”

  “Thanks, Richard.” I take my letter and breeze up my steps and, once inside, I tear it open. Just like the last letter, I tip the envelope up and the little bottle falls out.

  I read the label and giggle.

  Elliot Miles—Love Potion.

  My dearest Pinkie,

  In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.

  To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.

  In light of your various fetishes, I will oblige you.

  Enclosed is a picture for your personal spank bank, use it willingly and often.

  I frown. What?

  I search in the envelope and, inside, there’s a photograph wrapped in white paper.

  I tear it open and laugh. It’s a picture of Elliot’s bare feet, crossed at the ankles and resting up on an ottoman. He’s sitting on his deck with the lake and his beautiful Enchanted rolling green hills in the background.

  There’s a glass of Scotch on the side table and he’s wearing grey sweatpants.

  I frown as I stare at it. Maybe he’s onto something. This picture makes me want to be there. I keep reading.

  I hope you are well, my days are long, my nights are longer.

  You are missed, my love.

  Forever yours,

  Elliot.

  xo

  P.S. have you started knitting collars for your grandkids yet?

  Apparently, twins are common. I’m not nervous at all.

  I smile as my eyes linger on the letter; I pick up the little bottle and spray the paper.

  I hold it to my nose and inhale deeply, and Elliot Miles in all his glory swims around me.

  These quirky little letters that are so him, mean a lot.

  I smile. It’s a good day.

  ELLIOT

  Christopher pops his head around the door. “You want to grab some lunch?”

  I glance up. “Umm . . .” I do, but I don’t want him to see where I have to go on the way.

  “I’m good, thanks anyway.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “I know that, I just . . .” I pause as I think of an excuse. “I have to go to the post office later, I’ll grab something on the way there.”

  Christopher frowns as he walks in. “Why would you go to the post office?”

  “To have an eight-course banquet, what do you think?” I mutter dryly as I turn back to my computer.

  He sits on the edge of my desk. “Heard from Kate?”

  “No.” I hit my keys. “What makes you say that?”

  “You haven’t been out, you haven’t seen anyone else. You’ve barely left your property other than to come to work.”

  “So?”

  “She’s been gone nearly six weeks, Elliot.”

  “And your point is?” I snap, exasperated.

  “She’s not coming back, man.”

  “Listen,” I bark. “Kate is my business, and what happens between us is none of yours. I fucked up, and come hell or high water, I’m going to fix it.”

  “Then go to her and bring her home. You know where she is, what are you waiting for? This isn’t like you.”

  “You don’t know her. She’s too stubborn and if I push her, I’ll lose her in the end anyway. I’m giving her the time she deserves.”

  “Or the time to get over you.”

  My eyes rise to meet his.

  “Come on, lunch. We can go send your love letter on the way.”

  I exhale heavily. “Fine.” I open the top drawer of my desk and pull out a red envelope. He snatches it off me and reads who it is addressed to and he frowns.

  Miss Pinkie Leroo

  98 Grosvenor Street

  Mayweather, Oahu.

  “Why the hell do you call her Pinkie Leroo?”

  “Long story.”

  He turns the letter over and reads who it’s from.

  Edgar Moffatt

  Garbologist Extraordinaire

  Enchanted Kingdom

 
“Huh? Who the hell is Edgar Moffatt?”

  I snatch the letter from him. “I’ll explain on the way.” I put the envelope safely inside my suit jacket pocket. “Let’s go.”

  Twenty minutes later I stand in line at the post office, Christopher next to me on his phone.

  “Next,” the cashier calls, and she looks up. “Oh, hello Mr. Moffatt.”

  I cringe. She knows me by name now. “Hello.” I slide my letter over the counter.

  “Same as always? International tracked and signed to Oahu.”

  “Thank you.” I take out my wallet.

  “I hope these are love letters.” She smiles dreamily as she puts it through her computer.

  Just ring it up, stupid.

  “I mean, it’s so romantic, you sending a letter to Pinkie every day for a month.”

  I glance back at Christopher and he gives a subtle shake of his head in disgust. “Loser,” he mouths.

  I twist my lips in disapproval as I turn back to her. Why don’t you tell the whole post office, bitch?

  “I wish I had an admirer as devoted as you.” She smiles.

  Shut the fuck up.

  That’s it, tomorrow I find a new post office.

  KATE

  I struggle up the road with my new canvas, which is huge. Like the ones I used to paint when I was just a girl.

  I’m addicted to my new hobby and every day is better than the last.

  The sun, the sea, my life here . . . Edgar’s letters.

  I have a new thirst for life, my old self is returning day by day.

  There’s no pressure, no grief . . . only happy memories and freedom. I’m going to call Elliot soon; his quirky letters have made me feel closer to him. I read them constantly and may even sleep with the box I keep them all in.

  I want to fix this; he’s worth trying for.

  I come around the corner to see Richard’s van parked out the front and I wave and smile. “Hi, you’re early today?”

  He holds up three red envelopes. “It’s Monday, three letters today.”

  My broad smile nearly splits my face. Elliot writes to me every day.

  And I know we didn’t have a romantic beginning, but he’s definitely making up for it. Not that his letters are romantic, they’re weird and funny little stories from his day. He sends me photos and clippings. Each one makes me smile, each one makes my day that much brighter.