“Maybe thirty?”
“I’ll be thirty in a few months. That’s a lot older than you.”
“Mmm . . . five years, Alex. That’s quite a gap.”
He gave a self-deprecating smile. “A lot’s happened in those years, Sam.”
What did this woman do to him? I took another bite of the cake and leaned forward. I couldn’t tell if eager attention or dessert-induced distraction would get me back into the story, so I landed in the middle.
“After only a few months together, I asked her to marry me. She put me off with kisses and a bit of French, telling me that we shouldn’t rush and that she loved me. And rather than pull away, Simone drew me tighter. But she wouldn’t accept my proposal.
“It became a dance—one she choreographed. At first I wondered if she might be right, maybe I was rushing—wanting stability and assurance from her because I couldn’t find it in my career or anywhere. I don’t know.” Alex sighed and stayed silent a moment.
“So I spent the next year chasing her, while working in a coffee shop, editing Redemption, and outlining Three Days Found. I turned down ‘real’ writing jobs, and that infuriated Simone. But I felt Cole Barker could make it, and the coffee shop gig paid me enough to survive and gave me the time and freedom to write.” He grabbed a bite of cake from me with a smile.
“HarperCollins then bought Redemption and gave it the biggest marketing campaign in its history for a new author. The publicity assured the book’s success before anyone ever read a word.” He glanced at me again—gauging my reaction? I wasn’t sure. I took another bite and nodded slowly.
It was enough, and he continued. “Fortunately for me, the public loved it. Word of mouth took off, and Redemption leapt to the top and stayed. Cole Barker was an American hero, and I got movie offers and a contract to make him a series. It was unbelievable. And Simone wanted a ring. At first I was thrilled—it all worked. My book was a hit, and the most beautiful woman in the world loved me. Then it felt wrong, and I couldn’t understand why.
“That’s when I met Ben. He’s that pastor Cole meets in Salvation Bound. I hated him at first because he made me see how much I was getting wrong in my life. Three Days Found was due at Harper, but I couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t write a word.
“And I couldn’t envision life with Simone. I could see us at a party—we were always at parties and openings—and maybe even at the wedding ceremony, but I couldn’t picture the day after that or the day after that. We never stayed in, never rented a movie, never cooked dinner or talked deeply . . . We were never simply together.”
I nodded. Alex’s eyes showed an intense amount of longing. I hadn’t seen this vulnerability in him all summer. I wanted to hug him, but that definitely would have ended his story. And, unlike when he offered me comfort after the professor’s heart attack, this wasn’t that moment. He was somewhere else—with someone else.
Alex continued. “But how to communicate that? Simone loved to go out, and after Redemption sold, she quit her job and was relentless. When I protested, she pouted, then quit speaking to me. And when she finally looked at the book, she was livid. I hadn’t put my picture on the cover.” He smiled, small and flat.
I remembered my question the first day we met. Here was the answer.
“The end came when I asked my agent to negotiate an extension on Three Days Found. I saw a new direction for Cole. I wanted him to have more integrity, more strength, more vulnerability even, and I knew those changes were within him and within me. I wanted this new series to be good, really good.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to release not only tension, but words.
I nodded. “You did that. What did Simone think?”
“She believed that asking for an extension constituted failure. To punish me, she started going out with friends I didn’t know and ignoring my calls. Our wedding was weeks away. And I got physically sick.”
Alex looked back at me and paused. He studied me for a moment, and I realized that for the first time in his telling, he was with me—not trapped in his memories with Simone. I smiled with sympathy—I certainly understand losing oneself to the point of being sick. If I’d had the courage, I would’ve confided in him. I would have told him all my past, my fears, my longings, my everything.
Then I would’ve kissed him—then and there. Something lit in me, and I realized how much Alex means to me. I wanted him to know me—the real me. And I wanted to give him new memories. It startled me so much I shuddered. Alex raised an eyebrow, and I raised mine in reply. No way I’m telling you what I’m thinking.
He shook his head slightly as if clearing a thought and then he continued. “A couple weeks before the wedding, I sat Simone down and told her that things had to change. We could work it out, but I needed to know if she loved me—without the books, without anything else. And I wanted her to hear about what mattered to me and about how I wanted us to live.”
Alex looked so sad. And I understood why Mrs. Muir gets up from the table and makes tea or pours milk whenever the professor and I talk seriously. I wanted that distraction too. Not for me; I wanted it for Alex. He needed space to work through this, but I couldn’t give him any at our small table. So I simply pushed the cake plate to him. He took a bite and went back to his memories.
“Simone’s disgust was palpable. She calmly laid down the ring and walked out the door. I would have preferred her screams. The calm showed a contempt for me that I didn’t know existed. I couldn’t believe that was the end. I called, she wouldn’t answer. I went to her apartment, and her doorman wouldn’t let me in. After a few days, I unraveled our wedding. My mom offered to help, but Dad wouldn’t let her—said it was my mess. So I called every guest, every supplier, everyone.
“And on our canceled wedding day, I received a hand-delivered envelope: Simone was engaged. She’d landed some Russian guy and actually sent me an invitation to her wedding.” He leaned forward and poked at the last bite of cake. “And that is the story of my one engagement and my last real girlfriend.”
“Whoa. I’m so sorry, Alex.” I sat for a moment absorbing it. You had to give the girl credit—she knew precisely how to trap him, then destroy him, and that takes skill—disgusting, calculated skill. I tried to think up a similar character, but couldn’t find one to match—even Edmond Dantes, my paragon of precise ruthlessness, pulled back at the end and found a way to let go and forgive.
“You’ve dated since then . . . that’s . . . what? Four years ago?”
“Three years and seven months ago. But no, I haven’t. Not really. I’ve dated a couple women here and there, but I don’t know what they want or see now.” He sat back as if exhausted, and smiled that lopsided, self-deprecating thing he throws out. “Trust was never my strong suit, and now they see only Cole. They expect me to solve crimes, quote poetry, and play polo. All before drinks.”
“Cole plays polo?”
“He should. He’d be good at it.”
“How long do you plan to live this way?”
Alex laughed. “Typical straightforward newswoman. Not long, I think. My publisher was right. This change was good. I feel better than I’ve felt in years. Probably all this food and the running.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Seriously, I do feel better. And I’m not getting any younger.”
I smirked.
“I mean, I’d love to be married someday. I’d at least like to start dating the right woman . . . I’d love to be a father someday—” He started, like he had surprised himself or me. “That must seem so staid to you.”
“It’s not staid. It’s a great dream, and it’ll come true for you. You just have to let it.”
“You’re sweet.”
“It’s true. You got injured, not ruined. You’re okay, and you deserve better. You simply have to believe it. I see the way women look at you. Not Cole, Alex, you.”
He hiked his eyebrow again, questioning more directly this time. I refused to elaborate.
We had a
quiet drive to the Muirs’ house. The fact that this was the end suffocated me. I didn’t say much because I didn’t want to appear grasping and foolish, as I had earlier about the airport ride. And I felt like a fraud. Alex shared a lot of himself tonight, and I never possessed that courage. How much of me have I shown him?
He pulled into the driveway and walked me to the door like a perfect gentleman. He took my hand as I started up the steps.
“Sam?” He gently pulled me back. “I’ve loved our time together. Thank you for everything. You brought out the best in me this summer. I haven’t seen that guy in a long time.”
“My pleasure. He’s a good guy,” I whispered. My throat felt tight. There was so much I wanted to say as the moment slipped by.
“Good night, sweet Samantha. Good-bye.”
There was something in his voice. A sad tone I didn’t like. Is this good-bye? Forever good-bye?
He took my face in his hands and leaned down. At about two inches away, he stopped and looked into my eyes for eternity—only a few seconds really, but it felt that long. And with a small soft smile, he closed the gap and touched my lips for the breadth of a second. Then he left—no words, no last look. A forever good-bye.
So there ends the best summer of my life, Mr. Knightley. The Tribune internship is over, and that was thrilling enough, but Alex was more so. He brought out the best in me too. Even though I was never honest about my past, I was myself. Tonight was the end, though. I get that. He made no promises, no gestures, nothing. And he announced that he’s ready to move on with his life. I’m somehow the closing of the old, the end to one of his books—the soft final denouement.
And now I hurt. Alex was like those dreams I told you about—the ones that disappear if I hold them too tight. I know I said I’d pitch that theory when Coach Ridley got Kyle, but forget it . . . I’m Elinor or Charlotte, and for those two reality always wins. Actually, forget Elinor—she got her man in the end. I’m Charlotte, and some odious Mr. Collins will be the best I’ll ever get.
Sincerely,
Sam
SEPTEMBER 10
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Classes began yesterday. I’m ending my time here with Government Policy Reporting, Advanced Public Affairs Reporting, Web Technologies, and Advanced Nonfiction Long Narrative. Debbie says my schedule is suicidal and she’s right; it’s tough. But I figure that’s why I came. There’s more I need to learn, and I have no distractions. That sounds more pessimistic than I mean it. Let’s just say, little keeps me from a strong finish. Kyle is good. Josh and Alex are gone. And everyone else is too busy hunting down jobs.
Running and the Muirs keep me going. I decided to attack the Chicago Marathon again this year. It’s a month away and I have only two long runs left before taper begins. Kyle is eager to run with me this weekend, but I can barely spare time from work to knock out twenty miles, much less add the commute time to and from Grace House. He didn’t question or pester me—which makes me think he knows the truth: I’m retreating. I can feel it—not into books, but into my work. Nothing feels bright and shiny anymore.
Except the Muirs. I head up there about twice a week now and am met with good food, better hugs, and solid advice. The professor loves to review my work and has a remarkable ability to critique without being critical. It’s a gift I appreciate. He mentioned Alex the other night. I feigned indifference.
“He believes this next book may be his best.”
“Does he?”
“I’m proud of him, Sam. He’s had a tough road and I’ve worried these past couple years, but he sounds stronger now.”
“Hmm . . .” I pretended to read.
“I’m glad you spent some time with him this summer. Always good when the kids get along.” The professor chuckled.
And despite myself, I smiled. Alex was right—the Muirs love their “kids.”
We went back to our reading—at least the professor did. I didn’t read another word all night. I sat there with Unbroken carefully placed in front of me, feeling exactly the opposite.
Time to run,
Sam
SEPTEMBER 16
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The Ridleys adopted Kyle! No foster parenting—straight adoption! Isn’t it wonderful? The requirements for adoption are more lenient than for foster parenting. Go figure. So as the delays kept mounting to foster Kyle, they jumped over them. Adopted, Kyle’s adopted!
I’ve never heard him so excited. They invited me to the family dinner and party—and what an evening it was. And what an extraordinary family Kyle now has. My eyes are weary and weepy, but you need to know . . .
It was still light when I got off the ‘L,’ which was important to me. It’s not a safe neighborhood, and I was nervous. But I Googled the address, and the Ridleys live two blocks from the train stop. A cab made no sense. It was time for bravery. As I got off at Division, I headed west. Three blocks later I hadn’t passed the Ridleys’ house. I almost bolted when a group of teenage boys approached.
“So, pretty thang, where you goin’?” The smallest one blocked my path.
I stepped into my best Edmond Dantes—thirteen years in prison teaches you to fight—and said, “I’m looking for the Ridley house at 1360, but I can’t find it. You can help me or I can head to the police station two blocks down. Shouldn’t take me more than a few seconds to run.”
At the Ridley name, all three boys blanched and pointed. “Coach? He’s that house.” And they backed away.
I guess no one messes with Coach Ridley. But I didn’t see it. When I arrived, he couldn’t have been more mild and kind. His wife was lovely too. They welcomed me like I was Kyle’s sister, as did their two kids and their grandkids.
“We did it, Sam. We got our boy. Can you believe it? Can you believe he’s home?” Coach hugged me.
“I’m thrilled, Coach. I can’t tell you what this means for kids like us. Kyle’s whole world will change.” Tears pooled in my eyes, and Coach pulled me close for another hug.
“You’ve got a family now too. You remember that.”
I smiled, and Kyle beamed all night. I thought he was going to shoot from his seat during grace. I’ve never seen a grin so wide.
Coach Ridley stood at the head of the table and prayed like nothing I’ve ever heard.
“God, you gave us your Son, and now you’ve given us ours. We are so humbled and rocked to our very core to be blessed with this boy. Keep him close to you, Lord. Keep our eyes wide open when any danger approaches, any fears invade, or any enemy comes to steal the peace, the love, and the grace you’ve granted us. You are our God, and we are your children. Never let us forget. Amen.”
His voice bellowed over the table with such confidence that I knew—I knew no one can mess with this family. Bad things may come. But these people are God’s.
We ate, played charades, and laughed. It was a true home filled with true love. When it was time to go, I thanked them and headed to the door.
“Sam, how’d you get here tonight?” Mrs. Ridley asked.
“I took the ‘L.’ It’s only a few blocks, Mrs. Ridley. I’ll be fine.” I was slightly panicked, but I’m also tired of fear.
“Carl, Sam took the train here,” she called into the next room.
Coach was beside me so fast, I jumped. I can’t move that fast.
“I take it all the time, sir. Really, I’m fine.”
“You are not. Once you’re on, you may be fine; but you shouldn’t walk around alone at night. You must tell us before you come visit so we can meet you at the stop.” He called back into the living room, “Kyle, come on, son, we need to walk Sam to the train.”
Kyle popped up with a “Yes, sir” and followed us out the door. I see why the boys trembled when I mentioned Coach Ridley. His very essence demands integrity. Kyle’s in good hands.
As the train pulled up, Coach turned to me. “Thanks for coming, Sam, and come often. You’re family now.”
I couldn’t stop the tears from pooling, then
falling. I nodded, hugged them both, and boarded my train. As it pulled away, I saw Coach put his arm around Kyle’s shoulder. And I cried.
Everything I ever dreamed for Kyle is happening. My idea of “normal” was mere window dressing compared to this. Kyle’s got the real deal: a family who will stand by him and guide and love him for the rest of his life. You can tell there’s no halfway with the Ridleys.
And Kyle will need that strong, singular devotion because it’s going to be hard for him. I thought writing our story was tough, but Kyle will need more courage now. He’s changed so much in these last few months, but fears still plague him. He must lay them down, surrender his heart, and learn to trust others completely—I think that’s what having a family, having true love, really takes. I can’t quite process that. Surrender is foreign to me.
I’m proud of him—so proud, so happy, and so sleepy.
I’ll write more soon,
Sam
OCTOBER 5
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Classes are going well. Running is going well. The marathon is next Sunday. This week’s rest will give me more study time for midterms. Forget going out, forget fun . . . The job hunt has charged the air and no one is even nice anymore. I’ve stayed away from the nationwide fray by limiting my applications to the Chicago area. Kyle and the Muirs are here, and I see no reason to leave the only town I’ve ever known. But it’s an aggressive fight for the local jobs too.
On a bright note, Susan Ellis called yesterday to encourage me to apply at the Tribune. I know seven classmates applying there. Debbie’s one of them, and everyone concedes she’s best. So, while I was flattered Ms. Ellis called, I doubt my chances. I called Mike to see if she’d called him with the same encouragement, and she hadn’t—she’d offered him a job, two rungs up the ladder. Jealousy surged for a few minutes before reason prevailed. I’m not in Debbie’s league and I’m not in Mike’s. I stopped pouting, submitted the application, and then searched for some more township papers to which I can apply.
A Katherine Reay Collection Page 21
