Hunter smirked as he rolled toward my desk, where my computer slept. Where I’d spent the summer chatting online with him, learning random facts. The last two books he’d read were from Jamie Oliver and Dan Brown. His favorite meals involved pasta, and he once contemplated the merits of becoming a Pastafarian at the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster.
I held out the Archie tin. “There you go. Enjoy. Maybe return the tin when you’re done?”
Hunter breathed in the lavender grove scented air. “You want me to piss off already?”
No.
I stared at the tin he refused to take from me. “You want to stay?”
Hunter answered by rolling past me. He positioned his chair and gracefully slung himself onto the couch. “Bring it here, we’ll look together.” He patted the spot next to him.
I sat on the furthest end of the couch feigning fascination with the tin box, feeling the prickly heat of Hunter’s gaze on me. “The tin won’t open.”
“I don’t bite, Marc.” He paused. “Usually.”
“Ha! It’s just, I have a . . . bad back. Yeah. And this corner doesn’t sag.”
Hunter’s stern look told me to quit the bullshit and scoot, pronto.
I sighed and scooted.
Heat radiated into my side, and I tried opening the tin again. Mission impossible with stupid, shaky hands.
Hunter eased the tin out of my grip and had a go. “Tricky to get into, all right.”
With a pop the lid came clean off its hinges, and the back of Hunter’s hand bashed into my face.
My hands flew to my aching nose.
Hunter winced, twisting his torso toward me.
“You broke it,” I grunted through the pain.
“Your nose?”
I dropped my hands. “The tin!”
Laughter broke through Hunter’s sympathetic expression. “The tin I can fix.” He cradled my cheek and my body froze, nerve endings suspended. His thumb tenderly brushed over the bridge of my nose. “Looks okay. Might bruise.”
His gaze flickered to mine, and he slowly released me. He turned his attention to the contents of the tin, while I regrouped my soupy interior.
“Letters,” Hunter murmured. “Dozens of letters.”
He pulled them out onto his lap and studied them, many spoiled by leaked tin water. Or perhaps the author’s tears.
Hunter sorted them by date, and I pinched the one at the top of the pile and read.
Sep 1972
Dear V,
You always loved to start a conversation with humor. So I’ll joke, to set the tone right:
Jojo had puppies. I kept one and named her Triplets so that when people ask for favors I can say I’m busy caring for triplets.
I also like how it sounds. I’m a man who might have kids, even though you and I know that will never happen.
I mean that, V. It will never happen.
My family is respected—there will always be pressure to hide—but I will not commit myself to a loveless marriage. You are the one I love. The one I wish I could bring home to one of our fancy parties. This is V.A., the love of my life, my forever . . .
Oh, V. It pains me that you’re the one I’ve hurt the most.
The one I denied in such ruthless fashion.
The one I turned away to fight a war I’ve been protected from.
I am so desperately sorry.
Yours always,
K
“Are they all from K?” I asked.
“Looks like it. All to this V guy.”
“Can you be sure V is a guy?”
Hunter passed me another letter.
Oct. 1972
Dear V,
I wish I could send my last letter to you, but I know it could land you in trouble. I also don’t deserve your forgiveness.
Yet I dream about you granting it to me daily. Hourly. Every damn minute.
Remember when we first met?
I’d rushed out of my dorm room without an umbrella and the clouds opened up on me. I used my backpack to shield my head and dashed under the gazebo. I swore colorfully when I saw my soaked notebook.
I heard your laugh first. Deep, melodic, gentle. I was startled to find I wasn’t alone. You were sitting in the shadows, on the flat bench beside the trellis. Dark hair dripping water over the most handsome face I’d ever seen. I couldn’t stop staring, and your laugh turned nervous. You asked whose notes I’d lost and I told you Professor Fiend’s.
The most miraculous smile lit your face as you dug out notes from the same class.
I think I fell in love with you in those first minutes. And by God, I’d come back to this gazebo at the same time every morning to see if we met again. And we did. Every morning, without fail, you were there. Our conversations were always packed with humor, light, yet hope glittered at the edges. After that first month, when I finally gathered the courage to ask you to my baseball game—
God, I’ll never forget. You and me in the gazebo. Your rogue smile, the determined way you stepped close to me, your hands soft on my jaw, your warm lips closing over mine. Your murmur: Yes, and after can we go someplace private?