And the moment I arrive back at home, I spend all day looking at the photos I took of us. The first one I took with my phone and sent to Paige; the one of Luke crouching in front of his painting at the community center; the goofy one of him next to me on the bus; one of us lying in bed together—I can’t bear it. I can’t! I shut my laptop harder than I normally would and rush into the kitchen, trying to catch my breath. I stare out the kitchen window, looking into the clear blue sky peeking through the trees that surround my apartment complex, and I imagine Luke being out there, right now, standing on the edge of that cliff.
Then I picture his face, that beautiful smile of his that hides so much pain. And I picture his eyes, looking back at me with so much devotion and passion, and the tears stream down my face.
I picture him looking at me one last time. I’ll be all right, his smiling eyes say to me.
And then he jumps.
My head snaps away from the window and I sob into the palms of my hands.
For the next week, I try to forget about him. I go to work every single day, forcing a smile and engaging my coworkers in conversation as much as I can. I seek out Cassandra, practically begging—without actually begging—for something more to do. I’ll do anything, even if it’s cleaning her office and everybody else’s, just so I’ll have something to do to keep my mind busy.
I try to forget.
I try.
By the end of the week, the day before my last day at Harrington Planners, I’m gathering my things when Jackson, Cassandra’s secretary, knocks lightly on my open office door.
“I’m gonna miss yah,” he says as he steps the rest of the way inside.
Jackson is tall and lanky with light brown hair spiked up in the front, and he wears stylish black-rimmed glasses.
“I’ll miss you too,” I say, shouldering my purse.
“So what are you gonna do after leaving the big HP?” He smiles brightly and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“I’ve got a few things in mind,” I say, being vague. As much as I like Jackson, I don’t feel like explaining to him or anyone else at Harrington Planners why I left a job making as much as I’ve been making here for a little more than minimum wage at a nearby arts and crafts store—I was hired three days ago; went in one afternoon after work and filled out an application. They were in desperate need of someone, and I was hired on the spot.
Jackson smiles and nods.
Then he steps up and places a small stack of mail on my desk, like he does about every other day.
“Well, don’t be a stranger,” he says. “I don’t expect yah to come around this place anymore, but don’t forget about me next time you go out to Silver’s Bar with Paige; we had a lot of fun that one night.”
I smile back at him. “It’s a date,” I tell him. Of course, he knows it’s not really a date—Jackson is gay.
“Well, I’ll see yah around,” Jackson says just before he leaves my office.
“See yah, Jack.”
I reach out and grab my soda from my desk and go to leave when something catches my eye. I stop and set the soda back down next to the stack of mail that Jackson just brought by. I rarely ever look at it. Mostly it’s junk mail or ads from businesses I’m signed up for where I purchase a lot of things for planning events and such. But buried beneath all the junk is a white envelope with a handwritten address poking out from the side.
I barely notice when my purse slides off my shoulder and hits the floor as I lean over and shuffle the junk mail away from the letter. My heart is racing, my breath is beginning to pick up, with excitement or anticipation or fear—I don’t know which, maybe all of them.
But then … my heart just stops cold. I suck in a sharp breath and every bone in my body locks up.
The letter isn’t from Luke as I had thought, as I had hoped.
It’s from Kendra.
One week later …
Paige clutches my black Gucci tote bag against her chest like a mother holding on to her child.
“You’re crazy,” she says, digging her fingers dramatically into the leather. “You can’t give all this stuff away.”
I take another blouse dangling from a hanger down from the closet and slide the hanger out.
“I’m not giving it away,” I tell her, folding the blouse and putting it in a box on my bed. “I can make some money back on it selling it to consignment.”
“That’s the same thing as giving it away.”