A Katherine Reay Collection

by Katherine Reay

  As I replay the evening in my head, I don’t think he meant to sound like Mr. Darcy—until the end. I think he was scared. But why? I’m not the one who ran. He had nothing to fear from me. I never asked anything of him. I may have hoped for more, but I didn’t expect it.

  But he wasn’t scared at the end. He was angry—as angry as I’d ever seen him. No paraphrasing for Alex. He always did play the game better.

  He called the Muirs on Christmas morning and said he had to fly back to New York immediately. They were disappointed, but didn’t question me. I caught a cold that day and have been sick ever since.

  Mrs. Muir says I’m working too hard and not eating well. She’s right. I love that she cares, but right now I want to stay in my quiet apartment, shut the whole world out, and fade away.

  Graduation is tomorrow. Everyone is partying, then leaving. And I’m actually missed. I did it. I made friends who care, who want my company and who like me. Debbie made me soup; Ashley keeps delivering gossip magazines and chocolate; and lots of folks call, invite me to parties, and wish me well. It feels good to be included, but I’m still missing out. I’m stuck at home, feverish, green, and stuffy. And I ache so badly, Mr. Knightley. I hurt all over. I think I’ll cry.

  Your pathetic reporter,

  Sam

  JANUARY 15

  Dear Mr. Knightley,

  I need you—one last time . . .

  Graduation was last week. I couldn’t go, as my fever still hovered around 103. Debbie delivered my diploma afterward, so I have proof—and a job. I can start at the Evanston Review next month, or I can take the one-month trial Susan Ellis offered me yesterday. I have three days to decide: a steady but low-paying job or working for free for a month in hopes of an offer at the Tribune. I make it sound grim, but it isn’t. The Trib job is good and I’m considering it, but by personality, I’m risk-averse. A one-month “trial” might end me. That said, when my rental agreement here is over at the end of the month, I’m moving in with the Muirs until I get on my feet. So I could take a month “trial” with no pay. I’ll let you know. But none of that matters. I’m filling space to avoid the real issue . . .

  The Muirs called this morning. Alex had called them moments earlier to tell them he’d been hit by a cab a few days ago. He’s actually still in the hospital, Mr. Knightley. Of course, the Muirs hopped on the first flight they could get to New York. I gather Alex’s parents aren’t going out, and the professor believes he shouldn’t be alone right now.

  Mrs. Muir called again from the airport. My reaction when she’d first called had unnerved her. “Are you better, dear?”

  I wasn’t.

  “Sam? He’s going to be fine . . . Sam, are you there? . . . Sam, speak to me.”

  “He can’t be hurt, Mom. He can’t . . . ,” I mumbled. Tears got my phone all wet again. I felt wrecked and still very much alone.

  “He’s going to be fine. Will you?”

  “He’s hurt. I hurt him.” I started to hyperventilate.

  “Sam, I told you, a car hit him and he’s been sick. You had nothing to do with this.” An announcer cut across her voice. “We need to board the plane. I’ll text you when we land.” She didn’t hang up. “Sam?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You need to pray. Whether you believe or not, I want you to pray. Pray for Alex, and pray for yourself, dear.”

  “Why?” I was too numb to think.

  “Sometimes the action begets belief, and you need that now. In the end, it’s all that matters. Alex has it and he’ll be fine.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, darling. God is in this. I’m not diminishing Alex’s injuries, but I am asking you to trust that God is in this and that he’s got you too, Sam.” She let the words sink into me. “I need to go, darling.” She hung up.

  I know she’s right. God is with Alex. I know he’s with the Muirs. I believe that. I even believe, through the mist in my brain, that he’s with me. But I also know I’ve lied. That’s what I couldn’t tell her during either conversation this morning. I lied to myself and to Alex—so many times—and I layered those lies with vicious, hurtful words. I don’t want Alex out of my life—he’s already smack in the center. He’s mine and, despite the mess I’ve created, I’m his. Now I sound like Emma. Maybe that’s my first clue this is all wrong . . .

  But I love Alex completely—the broken, the quirky, the strong, and the serious sides of him. It’s a powerful emotion—one that electrifies and terrifies me—and it’s the most real thing I’ve felt in a long time. I called Ashley, who came over immediately.

  “Lizzy Bennet? You actually used her words to refuse him?” She couldn’t laugh. It sounded as horrid as it felt.

  “Yes. I’m so ashamed,” I sobbed. “And now he’s hurt . . .”

  “You do know she marries Darcy in the end?”

  “Not funny, Ash. This isn’t a book.”

  “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on, Sam. You didn’t reject Alex because he ticked you off. You rejected him so he couldn’t hurt you. You had to be the last one standing. All alone.”

  “That’s not fair. I’m not alone. I’ve got you, I’ve got the Muirs, I’ve got friends. I laid down those characters. I’ve laid myself bare for months. Do you understand how hard that is?”

  “More than most.” Her small frown confirmed her words. It’s unbelievable that I ever dismissed Ashley; she’s more like me than anyone I’ve known. We came at loneliness from opposite ends of the world, but we both found it.

  Ashley continued, “You accept those relationships on your own terms. We can’t hurt you. Not really. I don’t have access to those places deep within you. And if I did reach one and I harmed you . . . you’d walk away justified and never look back.”

  My jaw dropped. It didn’t faze her.

  “Don’t give me that face. I’d do the same to you, and we both know it. And the Muirs? You let them in, but it isn’t the same. Parental love is safer than romantic love.”

  Again I looked shocked, and she backtracked.

  “I don’t mean your real parents; they caused wounds I’ll never understand. But the Muirs aren’t going to hurt you deep in your heart. They won’t betray you, and you know that. Letting them in is not dangerous. You can remain whole.”

  She scooted toward me on the couch and took my hands. I sensed something bad was coming. You see it in the movies. The adult takes the kid’s hands before telling her that the puppy died. I closed my eyes.

  “Alex? He could wreck you. You’ve loved him since the first moment you saw him. Josh’s betrayal could never touch what Alex could do to you.”

  “You’re not helping.” I started crying again, that slow kind when tears course down your cheeks because you’ve been hit by something so painful and so long lasting that sobbing lacks the stamina to endure it.

  “You’re not a coward, Sam. You never were. Tell Alex your fears. Tell him your past. All of it.” She paused. “Did he ever read your first Tribune article?”

  “I don’t think so. He never mentioned it.”

  “Why didn’t you show it to him? I never understood that.”

  “Josh—”

  “Josh was a jerk. Don’t put him in the same conversation with Alex.”

  “Josh made me feel like less—first my past was shameful, then he held it up for display with that horrid necklace. And I didn’t see it, Ash. You did. You tried to tell me. Even Isabella knew—and she’s twelve! How could I not doubt myself? I don’t know the first thing about love or relationships. I didn’t want Alex to make me feel like that.”

  “You made yourself feel that way. Josh didn’t do that. And Alex wouldn’t.”

  The professor’s words flooded my brain: “Never let something so unworthy define you.” That’s what I did. I believed the lie that Josh could define me. Nice revelation, but not helpful at that moment. I had still screwed up with Alex.

  “What
do I do now?”

  “You’re going to tell him the truth. If he rejects you, then it’s honest and you’re done. You walk away whole. If he doesn’t, then it’s real, and that honesty will begin an amazing relationship. I know it.” She paused and leaned back next to me.

  “You can’t spend your life hiding, Sam—not in books, not in work, and not from love. This isn’t you. You’re the most courageous woman I know. You must fix this.”

  “Do I call him? Write him?”

  “Are you kidding me? Sam, you can’t be this clueless!”

  “I am.” I sniffled more.

  “Do I have to do everything? Get me your computer.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re taking the first flight to New York. Grab your credit card.”

  So I’m booked on the 7:35 a.m. flight to LaGuardia tomorrow. I am packed and ready for action.

  That’s a complete lie. I’m scared witless. But I’m so tired of fear—all forms, all kinds. I want to be free. I want to be Scrooge. I want to lay it all down in one moment and feel joy—weightless, bubbling joy. I don’t want to be first—

  That’s it, Mr. Knightley! I’m so stupid, so blind. That’s how Scrooge did it. He realized that others were more important than he was. Scrooge laid it all down because he didn’t need to be first. He finally saw more outside of himself. All those years he hoarded vapor—meaningless security—to protect himself. And he destroyed others in deep and crushing ways. He finally recognized the cost, and that others paid it. Then he saw it clearly . . . And they came first.

  I’ve been so busy protecting myself that I didn’t see it. I don’t need protecting. I’m safe, aren’t I? And even if I weren’t—I am not defined by that fear. Just because I like the color yellow doesn’t make these walls any more or less yellow. They simply are yellow. And I’m still standing. I don’t need Alex to tell me that. I don’t need running to show me that. Others don’t need to pay the price as I push and pull to simply confirm what is. I’m okay.

  Maybe that’s the first step to surrender. Maybe that’s my first step toward the joy the Muirs talk about all the time. Self-protection keeps you from love, Mr. Knightley—all love. I am so sad at how I’ve kept them at a distance—the Muirs, Alex, Father John, Kyle, Hannah . . . anyone and everyone who has ever stood by me. I played God in our relationships. I determined their value and their worth by how much I let them in, by how much I let them determine my worth. I’m not God. And I don’t need to work so hard anymore . . .

  I love Alex—plain and simple. I love Alex, and I want him to come before me. I don’t care what it costs. Giving him the truth and fixing the hurts I’ve caused is more important than anything I think, feel, own, expect . . . No matter what happens between us, I can free us from these lies. I can be honest.

  So, Mr. Knightley, here is the part where I need you. I figured this one out before I realized all this other stuff—and it still feels right, so I’m going to press on.

  We need to meet. We need to meet so I can say thank you and good-bye. Ashley talked about my “hiding places” this morning. You’re one of them. I found sanctuary in these letters, but no more. If I’m going to truly love my new parents, my new friends, and especially Alex, I need to be real. I need to be present.

  I want to do this properly, though. I want to be brave and show you the respect you deserve. I want to thank you in person. Father John gave me your foundation’s e-mail for this letter. It was like squeezing a state secret out of him, but you need this tomorrow. And it doesn’t violate our agreement, Mr. Knightley. That ended with graduation. I am asking you to do this as a friend, as someone I have come to trust and rely upon. So please, Mr. Knightley, e-mail me when and where we can meet. Please let me say good-bye properly.

  And, Mr. Knightley, forget my theory about Icarus. If you don’t sail high, with the risk of crashing and burning, do you really live? Can you love? I doubt it. I’m ready to fly.

  Love,

  Sam

  NEW YORK

  Sam stepped out of the cab. New York Presbyterian Hospital loomed in front of her, darkened by shadow. The street was packed and noisy, but she heard nothing. She couldn’t drag her eyes from the building. With all the people bustling in and out, only two men mattered—two men in all of New York. First Alex. Then Mr. Knightley. She pulled her phone out of her pocket. No e-mail.

  Start with Alex. One step at a time.

  The noise of the cab pulling away penetrated her fog.

  I can do this. Just be honest.

  “Ms. Moore?”

  “Yes?” Sam turned toward the door, searching.

  A petite woman stepped forward from under the awning. She had straight blond hair, cut neatly below the chin, and looked chic in her black slacks and crisp black wool coat. She smiled and stretched out her hand. “I’m Laura Temper. Mr. Knightley asked me to meet you and escort you upstairs.”

  “He’s here?” Sam put her hand to her throat.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh . . . I . . .” She shook her head and pulled her shoulders back in an effort to gain courage. “I’m pleased to meet you, Laura. Thank you for all you’ve done for me these past couple years.” Sam thrust out her hand, willing her voice to sound approachable and friendly. But she couldn’t separate her mind from her mission. “Did he . . . ? Did Mr. Knightley show you my letters?”

  “He did not.” Laura turned and gestured toward the revolving door. “Shall we?”

  Sam followed.

  The older woman’s heels made staccato taps on the stone floor. She offered no conversation, and Sam’s thoughts skittered in cadence with the click, click, click.

  Did Mr. Knightley meet Alex? What’s been said? I feel sick. I should’ve eaten . . .

  The ride to the sixth floor was over too quickly. The elevator opened onto a small lobby, and straight ahead Sam saw the Muirs standing in close, tense conversation. The professor was visibly upset.

  “Darling!” Frances noticed her first. She pulled Sam into a tight hug. “I texted you earlier that Alex is going to be fine. Why are you so pale?”

  “Where is he?”

  “Room 607, about five doors down on the right.” She moved her hands to Sam’s cheeks, forcing her to focus. “He’s fine, Sam. Breathe.”

  Sam let out the breath she’d been holding and offered a small, flat smile. “Forgot about that.”

  “It helps, dear. Now go see Alex.” She turned to Laura. “Thanks for waiting for her, Laura.”

  Sam turned back, startled. “Wait—you know each other? How?”

  No one spoke, but Frances nodded.

  “Then . . . have you met Mr. Knightley? Is he with Alex?”

  Frances paused and glanced at her husband. “He’s in there too.”

  Sam didn’t hear another word as she walked away. The hall tunneled before her eyes, its edges blurring. It doesn’t matter that they’ve met. It changes nothing. She reminded herself of all she’d laid down and how far she’d come. Stay focused.

  She stopped outside Room 607. Now was the time for courage and conviction—not fear. She rounded the corner, and tears sprang to her eyes. Alex lay in a hospital bed, attached to more tubes and monitors than she could count. He was propped up on pillows, with purple and blue bruises across his face, pain etched in his eyes, and deeper lines across and around his mouth than she remembered. But he was awake—awake and staring straight at her.

  “You’re here.” He smiled and grimaced with the effort.

  Sam hesitated and looked around the room. “You’re alone?”

  “I am.”

  “But Mom said Mr. Knightley was in here.”

  “I know.”

  “Know what? You know him?”

  Alex scooted over in his bed, stifling a wince, and patted the empty spot next to him. “Come sit, Sam.” He held out his hand.

  Sam looked around the room, perplexed. “Alex?”

  “I’m so sorry. I’m scared.”

  “Why? Why are you scare
d?” Her heart shifted and broke the tiniest bit. Alex’s feelings meant more than her fears. Wasn’t that what this journey was about? She sat gently and reached over to brush a tear from the corner of his eye.

  “I never meant to hurt you.” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “You didn’t. I hurt you.”

  Alex closed his eyes. “No, you didn’t. I always knew. You unfolded your heart in every letter . . .” He hesitated. “Every letter to me.”

  “To . . . you?”

  “Forgive me . . . ,” Alex whispered. He opened his eyes and stared at her with such longing that for a moment Sam lost herself in the confusion. Only for a heartbeat—

  “You?” She recoiled, and before she knew it she was across the room. The hit came to her heart, not her head—it couldn’t be true.

  “Sam, come back.”

  She swiped at her eyes. “This whole time? Mr. Knightley?” The truth settled, full of details and emotions—full of the letters she had written.

  “Alex?” Her voice broke, and the tears started.

  “Don’t cry, Sam. Please. Come sit down. I can’t reach you over there.”

  She covered her face with her hands and stepped backward until she bumped the wall. She held one last thread of hope—it couldn’t be true.

  “No, this way . . .”

  Without removing her hands, Sam stood still.

  “Let me explain.”

  She shook her head, her face still hidden.

  “Then listen from right there.” Alex cleared his throat. “Grace House solicited my foundation years ago. You started out as just another grant. But when I read your college writing, I wanted to know you. Father John thought you needed to be drawn out, and I thought letters would be a good way to achieve that. I never expected more.” Alex delivered the speech all in one breath, then stopped and inhaled.