Fortuity (Transcend 3)

How did I let him leave without exchanging numbers? Oh, that’s right … pen pals. I need to hear his voice. I need to see his face. Morgan would give it to me.

Play it cool.

My inner voice sucks. She has way more patience than I do.

Maybe I can draw him out, make him feel as needy as I do. I rest the letter face down on my chest, with one hand over it like I’m hugging it. With my other hand, I lift my camera up as high as I can reach, close my eyes, find a soft smile, and snap the shot.

When I see it, I grin. It’s perfect. Changing it to black and white like the photo Nate stole of me in my bikini, I post it to Instagram (my first posted selfie) with the simple caption: Love letter. (And a red heart emoji.)

There’s a one hundred percent chance of Morgan showing it to Nate. I want him to know how much I love it, and I want him to know before snail mail will deliver a response from me. I’ll play his archaic game of pen pals, but that doesn’t mean I can’t post all the things I want him to see—things that have no real words, like the way I feel right now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Nathaniel

After telling Morgan the snow wouldn’t last, we get a foot of snow a week later and school gets let out early. Morgan skates her feet to my charcoal gray Mercedes-Benz SUV and slides into the backseat.

“Hey! How was your day?”

“Dad …” Her wide eyes peer at me in the rearview mirror. “You are not going to believe this.”

“Okay …” I pull ahead ten feet and stop again as I make the slow trip through the school pickup line.

“Look! LOOK!” She shoves her phone in my face. “I took a screen shot before leaving the building, since my dad is super mean and won’t let me have cellular service.”

I take the phone from her, glance up to move my vehicle another ten feet before returning my gaze to the Instagram photo of Gracelyn. My heart practically breaks out of its cage.

“Love letter! Dad, did you write her a love letter? Was it you? Please say it was you. I really want it to be you.”

When the car behind me gives a gentle honk for me to go, I hand the phone back to Morgan. “I wrote her a letter. I’m not sure you could call it a love letter.”

“Daaad … if you love her, then it’s a love letter. Do you still love her?”

So much …

“What do you want for dinner? I have makings for tacos.”

“When Gabe and I turn eighteen, will you find her? Will you take her flowers and ask her to marry you?”

I laugh, but it’s not that funny. Eight years. Imagining eight years to wait is pretty fucking painful. Four months has been its own hell. “One day at a time. I don’t like to wish my life away … wish your childhood away. A lot can happen in eight years.”

“I know … she could marry someone else before then. Or you could marry someone here. If Mrs. Calloway weren’t married, you could marry her. Well, maybe not. You’re a lot older. Her husband brought her lunch last week, so the class got to meet him. He has tattoos and he’s so cute. After he handed her her lunch, he kissed her cheek, and everyone said aw. Her face turned red.”

I don’t expect anything less. If I’m honest, I’ve wanted Swayze’s happiness far more than my own. “She married a real boyfriend.” I smile, knowing the joke is lost on Morgan. Daisy used to say she was using me until she found a real boyfriend. Griffin Calloway walked to the ends of the earth and slayed the Devil himself to save Swayze from the demons of her past. Daisy got her real boyfriend … just in a different life.

“What’s a real boyfriend?”

I glance back in the mirror to her cocked head and curious expression. “A boyfriend who loves you beyond reason, even when he’s not sure you love him the same way.”

“I want one of those.”

“In twenty years, baby girl … twenty years.”

*

Two weeks later …

I stare at the envelope addressed to me from Gracelyn. I told my editor I’d have the manuscript to her by tomorrow. If I open the letter and read it, I know my concentration to get the last few changes made will be shit. That’s why I can’t open it yet.

Five minutes later, I open it.

Dear Nate,

Thank you for the letter. I follow Morgan on social media, so I get to see the occasional picture of you. The beard is perfection. I wish I could feel it. Is it soft or scratchy? How would it feel brushing along my inner thighs? Yes, I’m thinking that. A lot.