Dear Mr. Knightley (34 page)

My eyes flew open.
He said he loved me, but had been trying to
forget me? He looked for someone else? What happens when he tries that again? Does he actually think this won’t infuriate me?

“Are you serious?”

“Proposing marriage? Yes. I’m sorry. I’m doing this all wrong. It’s just that I’m nervous. There’s so much you need to know, Sam. But I’ll tell you. I won’t keep anything from you. And this fall was no good without you.”

I think Alex babbled on, but I didn’t hear him. I was still lost in “I tried to forget you” and, my favorite, “There are a lot of women in New York.” A few seconds of these gems bouncing in my brain and I couldn’t help myself . . .

I will be ashamed to my dying day for what I did next. Not for saying no. That was right. But for how I said it. I wanted it to be from me. I wanted to stand on my own two feet and say what I felt. I wanted to say that I was mad at him—furious—and deserved more than this pathetic explanation and certainly more than his insulting pseudo-Darcy proposal. What was he thinking? I had a right to be angry, and I had a right to be heard. I lost both by hiding in the most despicable way I could.

“I think I should be thankful to you, Alex, but I don’t feel it. I don’t want your love and, clearly, offering it isn’t what you want either. I’m sorry if this hurts, but I’m sure you’ll recover quickly.”

“Sam . . . don’t do that.”

I was paraphrasing, not quoting, but he knew.

“It’s no worse than what you just did. You told me you never meant to love me, tried to forget me, even sought others to replace me. Were you playing our game, Alex? Because if you weren’t, you missed the mark.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I was just . . .” He reached for my hand, but I pulled it back. “Please. Talk to me.” His eyes glistened.

I didn’t know I had any power over Alex. His silence this fall led me to believe I held none, but he was clearly upset. He shook his head as if trying to push the moment away. I should have stopped. I didn’t.

“ ‘You’re the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.’ ” I finished with a direct quote, just to drive the nail deep. One single tear ran down my cheek before I could stop it. I swiped at it and hoped he hadn’t noticed. He reached for me again. I looked away.

“I’ll get the check.” He sounded so disappointed. “If all you can offer is a hackneyed refusal stolen from Elizabeth Bennet, we have nothing more to say.” He captured my gaze until I pulled away. “We were more than that, Sam. We saw each other—really saw each other from the first moment we met. There was none of this between us. It was our game because we never needed it as a weapon. And I wasn’t playing tonight.” He got the check, and we left in silence.

At the Muirs’ walk he turned to me. “I can’t stay and see Mom M and Pops tonight. Tell them I had to go.”

I nodded and walked past him, but then he called me back.

“Sam, is this really how you want us to end? Why won’t you trust me?”

My heart was broken, but I was still angry. Maybe it was pride, but mostly fear. “I did trust you, and look what it got me: a long, silent fall and an insulting proposal. Don’t look so sad, Alex. You’ll forget me soon—again.”

“Forget you? If you only knew . . .”

I looked at him. Part of me wanted to grab him and share everything. Tell him that he was already an indelible part of me. Tell him I loved him—that I felt alive and whole and excited when he was near, and that, when we were together, the world glowed shiny and bright and I could be brave. And tell him I hated him—that the fall was gray and grim and felt like drudgery without him, but that he had abandoned me, and now my happiness would never be tied up with him because I would never make that mistake again. I clenched my jaw and shook my head. It was all I could do.

Alex’s face hardened. “ ‘And this is your opinion of me. This is the estimation in which you hold me. I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps’ ”—he stepped toward me—“ ‘these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I with greater policy concealed my struggles.’” He watched me absorb every word, every nuance. Then he walked away.

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—