Where would I go from there?
There were so many questions to be answered, so much damage to be repaired.
I didn’t live with passion anymore; and I had, once. I wanted that back. I wanted to wake up in the morning and know that I was doing something that made me happy, made me feel like I had a purpose.
My steps became slower and slower, and then I stopped. I looked right and left, realizing I wasn’t really sure of where I was anymore. Too many side streets, too many little areas to get lost. And I was most definitely lost.
I turned around, hoping it might help me get my bearings, and came face to face with a sign.
Not a literal sign, but a sign nonetheless. It was there, written in bright green words spray-painted across the brick façade of an old store. The words were my words—written by some unknown hand—just for me.
Live with intent.
The store sat vacant, lonely-looking in its emptiness, its picture windows wide open and exposed. A For Sale sign hung askew at the bottom left corner of the window nearest the front door, which was locked tight in what seemed a cursory attempt at keeping vagrants away. Such a shell of a building.
It was beautifully—strangely—metaphorical.
I realized there were tears running down my cheeks, unbidden tears. Not of sadness or frustration or anger. I felt as though someone had reached out and touched some deeply buried place in my heart, gently caressed some long forgotten part of me.
I didn’t know yet what I was going to do, but I was determined to make my time count. This was it. This was the jumping off point, the line in the sand. This was my billboard from God.
I was going to make my life full.
I smiled as I stood there, staring at the sad little brick building, and took a deep breath.
Now.
I turned around with one last look at the words, so boldly scrawled there for all the world to see, yet written solely for me. My steps, so unsure and unfocused as I had wandered this way, were now deliberate as I retraced them to make my way back to the office.
Yes, I would have to go back. For now. But there was a swell of hope in my chest as I walked, a feeling of promise.
Things were going to be different now. Things were going to change, and I was going to be the author of that change. I had a story to write, a life to live—and a passion to pursue.
I walked back with a small smile playing on my lips, the seeds of an idea beginning to germinate.
To: Neil Epstein
From: Zoë Trent
Subject: We meet at last!
Dear Neil—
It’s so nice to finally meet you.
Sort of.
I’d have preferred an in-person meeting, but this is definitely a step up from not being able to communicate at all. I’d ask you where you are, but I’m not sure that’s allowed. Ray seems to be hazy on the details of your exact location, so I’m guessing that not even he knows. So I’ll just say that I hope you’re doing well and that the time you’re spending over there, wherever “there” may be, is going quickly for you. The last two months here seem to have flown by.
So. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Zoë Trent, a fact that I’m sure you already knew, if Ray really did run all of this by you. I must admit, I was beginning to wonder.
I’m a single, non-smoking, non-partying twenty-four-year-old bookkeeper who generally lives a very boring life and tends to keep to herself, so you needn’t worry that you’ll come home to a destroyed house that reeks of an ashtray and stale beer.
I want to thank you for being so generous in trusting me with your home. The situation may not be the most ideal, since we don’t know each other; but I have to tell you that your home has been a sanctuary to me over the past two months.
Thank you for that.
Well, I don’t want to overwhelm you with too much to read, so I’m going to sign off and hope that I hear back from you soon.
Take care and stay safe!
Zoë
To: Zoë Trent
From: Neil Epstein
Subject: RE: We meet at last!
Zoë:
I’m glad to “meet” you, too. And you’re welcome—but I think I should be the one thanking you. I’m glad to know that my house is in capable hands (Ray tells me he would trust you with his children—which might mean a little more if he actually had any, but still). As I said in my letter, please don’t hesitate to get in touch with any questions about the house.
Yes, the last two months have gone by quickly; and I’m hoping the next few do, as well.
Neil
I read the e-mail with a mix of curiosity and disappointment. There wasn’t any hint of personality; and to me, the exchange felt unsatisfying.
I took a sip of coffee and leaned back in my chair, still staring at the screen. I reread the last two lines and wondered if he was indirectly trying to tell me that he didn’t really want me to contact him unless it was absolutely necessary. He’d said basically the same thing in the letter he’d mailed.
I chewed my upper lip and swiveled back and forth, back and forth.
Was he really so detached?
I had imagined him to be somewhat charming, yet nothing in either the letter or the e-mail gave any hint of that. In fact, he seemed a bit flat.
If someone was staying in my house, and I’d finally gotten in contact with them, I’d want to know everything. But that was just me. The only explanation I could come up with for my need for information, for something other than cool anonymity, was the fact that I was here, in his home, among his things. Who could blame me for obsessing? It was a little like having an incomplete description of someone, and I hated to leave things incomplete.
I picked up my phone and dialed Ray. There were three rings, and then his voicemail picked up.
“Hey, this is Ray. Now it’s your turn.”
Beep.
“Nice. I guess maybe all guys are short on words, huh? It’s Zoë. I was just calling to let you know that I got an e-mail from Neil, and I have a couple of questions. But I guess you’re too busy doing whatever you’re doing to take my call. So,” I sighed heavily into the phone, hoping I sounded sufficiently woebegone. “I’ll wait and talk to you when you have a minute to spare.”
I ended the call and tossed my phone back onto my desk.
Kate. I could call Kate. She might be able to give me some kind of advice, right?
I picked up the phone again and dialed Kate’s number. I didn’t even have the luxury of ringing this time; it went straight to voicemail.
“Hi! You’ve reached Kate Chisholm. I’m sorry I missed your call, but please leave your name and a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks, and have a fantastic day!”
Beep.
Forget research. Kate sounded as perky as the captain of a high-school cheerleading squad, but right now I wanted to talk to her, not some perky-ass voicemail system. Where were all the people in my life when I needed to talk to them?
“Kate! Call me! Please!” I groaned into the phone.
Or maybe commanded would be more of an accurate description. I snapped the phone shut and glared at it as though it had committed some offense against me.
I really wasn’t sure why I was so worked up, but I was. I was feeling mightily impatient, and nothing in the universe seemed to be cooperating. I tapped the phone against the edge of my desk, mentally berating myself at being so very juvenile. The whole thing was just maddening, though. I’d waited all this time to have any sort of contact with Neil, and when he did finally, finally, take a minute to get in touch with me, the exchange was incredibly lackluster.
Was I really that surprised? Should I have been?
I looked at my watch.
Quarter to twelve.
Mom would probably be home.
“Hey, sweetie, what’s up?” she asked when she picked up.
“Oh, I’m so glad you picked up! Nobody else seems to be able to answer their phone t
oday, and I really need someone to talk to. Maybe it’s silly, but I do. Hell, maybe it’s nothing, but—” I was talking in one very long stream, hardly pausing for breath.
“But tell me anyway,” she said, cutting me off mid-sentence.
I was beginning to feel silly. Would it even make any sense?
“Um. Well, I got a letter in the mail the other day. From Neil,” I started, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder.
“You did? Oh, that’s great! How exciting! A letter. I’m not even sure how long it’s been since I got a real letter in the mail. No one seems to do that anymore, do they?”
I heard the soft clinking of dishes on the other end of the line.
“Not really, no. Anyway, he gave me his e-mail address so that I could get in touch if I needed to know anything about the house. I sent him an e-mail, kind of just to let him know I got his letter and introduce myself, since we’ve never met. I wasn’t sure if he’d send anything back, but I was really hoping he would…” I trailed off, feeling more and more idiotic with each word.
“Did he?” she asked.
“Yes. I got one this morning.” I realized I was picking a thread on the hem of my skirt that might be vital to overall construction. Probably I should stop doing that, I thought, moving on to a hangnail I noticed on the thumb of my left hand.
“So what’s the problem, Zoë?” I could hear the puzzlement in my mother’s voice, and I really couldn’t blame her. After all, even I was growing confused by my reaction. I stopped picking my hangnail and folded my hands together in my lap.
“I don’t know, Mom. I guess I just hoped for…more? There’s really nothing wrong with the e-mail. I mean, it’s polite. There isn’t anything in it like annoying spelling mistakes, but…It’s polite,” I said again.
“And there’s something wrong with polite?” I could hear a hint of the laughter she was trying to resist. “You sound like you’re complaining!”
“No,” I replied, shaking my head and wondering if I was really going to be able to explain. “There’s nothing wrong with polite. But it just seemed so…so… Sterile. Do you know what I mean?”
I imagined her staring at me with an eyebrow raised and a look of grave perplexity on her face. No one sane would know what I meant, I was sure.
“Yes. And if I may venture a guess at why you’re so frustrated right now—You were hoping that he would send you an e-mail that would just completely sweep you off your feet and restore your faith that not all the good ones are married or gay or dead. Instead, you got something that seemed impersonal and flat; and that just completely killed all those ideas you’ve built up in your head,” she said.
I wondered how she’d known, how she could so quickly diagnose the situation.
But she was right.
I’d fabricated ideals about this man I’d never laid eyes on or even had a conversation with. I’d taken bits and pieces of details and strung them together to make a “replacement” for the man I’d lost. Neil was safe because he was so far away. Because he was an unknown. Because I’d unintentionally gotten comfortable with the idea that I would never know him. As curious as I was about the man, I had become sure that contact between us would never happen, so idealizing him was harmless.
Until it wasn’t.
“So what do I do now?” I wondered out loud.
“You don’t have to do anything, Zoë. Just be aware. And there’s nothing wrong with writing to him when you want to write. He’d probably like knowing what’s going on there, and I doubt Ray keeps him very much in the loop. Men don’t do that. So write. Maybe he’ll become less ‘polite’ the more he gets to know you. I’m sure there’s a reason that he and Ray are such good friends, so find out what that is. Now, I have to get off the phone because your father is staring at me and pointing wildly at his mouth,” she laughed. “I guess I need to go feed him.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, grateful to have a mother who seemed to understand me so completely, even when I didn’t really make sense to myself.
“Anytime, hon.”
Chapter 12
To: Zoë Trent
From: Sam Fleming
Subject: One Year
Zoë-
This is not something that’s easy for me to write. Actually, this is something that I kept putting off because I dreaded it so much. Days of promising myself that I would write tomorrow became weeks. Weeks became months, and now months have become a year.
A year.
It sounds so inept. Such a tiny word to encompass so very much.
I know you probably don’t believe me, but I’ve thought of you over and over in the past year.
Wondered how you were doing, wondered if you blamed me the way I blame myself. I know you must be reading this and feeling as though I don’t deserve a moment’s thought, since I pretty much disappeared from your life after Paul died. It wasn’t something I planned—It was something that kind of just happened.
It seemed easier. I know it sounds like the coward’s way out, but it’s the only explanation I can give for it. It doesn’t excuse me, but I’m not looking for excuses. Just forgiveness.
It’s been a year, Zoë, and we’re both living lives that have been changed by that one moment, one loss. I’ve healed much more in the past year than I thought I ever would be able to, but at the same time, I know I can’t fully heal until this one thing is done.
I need to see you again. I need to know that you’re doing alright.
I know it’s a lot to ask, but please think about it.
Yours very sincerely,
Sam
The computer screen seemed to be an incomprehensible blur of words as I sat at my desk, staring at the e-mail and trying to make sense of it.
I couldn’t help but keep staring at the date.
July 12.
It was one that loomed largest in all the occasions of my life, a day that had changed everything. Every decision I made, every thought that crossed my mind. Every thing in my life was viewed through the filter of this one day.
I took a deep breath and blinked, trying to regain focus on the e-mail that had been so long in coming.
Sam.
Paul’s Sam.
Sam, who had seemed such a presence in Paul’s life.
Sam, who had disappeared like steam on a window when Paul died.
I wasn’t quite sure how to feel as I sat there, reading his message. Angry? Betrayed? Understanding?
I knitted my eyebrows together. Why should he be deserving of understanding when he had retreated like a coward? Paul was dead, and I’d been left alone to pick up all of the pieces. Yes, he’d lost his best friend, but I’d lost the man I was supposed to spend the rest of my life with.
We were both in pain, but he had taken his and run away from anyone who reminded him of Paul.
He hadn’t even come to the memorial.
I swallowed the derisive laugh that burned the back of my throat and closed my eyes.
A memory flashed across my eyelids like scenes on a projection screen, sounds echoed in my ears with vivid resonance. Paul and Sam walking out the door of my apartment that one last time and pulling it shut behind them, a bark of laughter escaping Sam’s lips as the door clicked shut. The last time I saw Paul alive.
I opened my eyes.
He felt guilty.
It was so clear that I wondered why the realization had taken so long.
It’s because you’ve been so wrapped up in your own pain, Zoë.
Tears stung my eyes as I began to read the e-mail again. My mouth was dry, and I felt kind of like I’d been knocked off my feet. He wanted to see me? I narrowed my eyes at the screen, trying to decide whether to delete the e-mail or to reply to it.
Did I owe him a response, now, after all this time? He felt guilty, but did I owe him my forgiveness?
I stared at the screen, lost in my own thoughts, completely unaware of anything else going on around me.
Forgiveness.
It wa
s a funny thing. I’d been granted forgiveness so many times in my life, so often when I didn’t deserve it. Now was my chance to give it to someone who was obviously desperately in need of mine.
The hardest part would be doing it.
Sam Fleming had been a fixture in Paul’s life when we’d met—the friend who was always there, like a shadow. Not that he didn’t know when to make himself scarce, but he was generally a regular part of the scenery. Fortunately for me, Sam had given me the nod early on in our relationship, so Paul had never had to choose between me and his friendship with Sam.
He was the go-to guy, the guy who always seemed to have your back, which had always begged the question—at least for me—why hadn’t someone snapped him up? He was handsome, with dark hair he wore cut close to his scalp, just enough length to tousle with a little bit of gel; and brown eyes that were warm to the point of being nearly amber. A sharp, angular jaw and very prominent Adam’s apple were both reasons he’d never been successful at poker, as they reflected any slight change in emotion. His Adam’s apple bobbed ferociously whenever he was nervous or uncomfortable, while his jaw worked overtime in excitement or anger. Sam was just tall enough to make a woman feel protected, compact enough to translate the quick strength he possessed for most of his athletic pursuits. He’d spent time in high school boxing lightweight and running, but he’d given up the boxing after one too many broken bones.
From what I knew of Sam and Paul’s friendship, they had known each other for years, though I could never seem to pin down exactly how they had met. I knew for certain that they’d been introduced in college, at some kind of social club or meeting or something—sometimes it sounded like a frat house deal, and sometimes it sounded as subdued as a meeting of the chess team—depending on who was doing the telling. However it had really happened, they seemed to have a bond closer than most brothers.
Sam was successful, too. Not in the overstated, I-wear-a-suit-and-tie-corporate-guy way, but in an unassuming way that made him approachable and relatable. He’d started his own web design company right out of college and had clients that ranged from a local jewelry designer to a multinational corporation that operated from some obscure city in Maine.
Coming Home to You Page 9
