Dear Mr. Knightley (27 page)
Dear Mr. Knightley,
The text
Coffee? Lunch? Day? Start at Starbucks on Wells and North. 10 am?
awaited me when I came home from my run this morning.
Hmmm . . . Old Town on a Saturday and a whole day? This was new and intriguing . . . I texted back:
Just got this. See you at 10:15.
I showered, threw on a pair of khaki shorts, cute ballet slippers, and a white short-sleeved blouse. The Muirs left me their cars, so I got to Lincoln Park quickly and felt dressed for anything—except Alex’s plans.
“You’re not wearing running shoes.” Alex bounced around the Starbucks—too much espresso.
“You said nothing about running,” I laughed. “I’ve already run ten this morning.”
“You ran?” Sad, puppy-dog eyes.
“I can run more. What’s up?”
“I thought we’d start the day at the zoo and wander Lincoln Park, eat lunch, then go for a run later this afternoon and catch a movie.”
It sounded perfect—no quick lunch, but an entire day with a good friend.
“Great. I’ll drive back up and get my gear. I’ll be—”
“No!” He grabbed my hand to pull me in line. “You need your vanilla latté, then we’ll go. Shoes will take care of themselves.”
I grinned and submitted. He was like me with a new book—but jacked up on caffeine.
After paying for my coffee and another for him, we wandered the entire neighborhood and the zoo. I stood for a long time at the elephants, and he made me stay equally long at the penguins—cute but cold little guys. We didn’t talk much, and the silence hung like a silk curtain, light and lovely. He was eager to share the day and I was equally delighted—both in the activities and the company. Alex is easy to talk to. He doesn’t press and he’s beginning to share. We both are.
He’s also really handsome. Women look at him and I don’t think they recognize him; they just think he’s cute. What’s even better? He doesn’t notice. Again, it’s not the whole left eye thing—I believe Alex chooses to focus on what’s in front of him. The rest just floats by. It’s flattering, though daunting at times, to be in that zone.
I refuse to dissect our relationship, but old habits die hard. Are we friends? Semi-family via the Muirs? I can’t tell. I assume there’s nothing more than friendship on Alex’s side. He never gets “that look” or holds my hand. Sure, he grabs it occasionally, but that’s for speed or directional corrections. I also get a guiding hand at the small of my back sometimes, but again, it’s a directional thing. And it’s gentlemanly. Alex is that.
After a sidewalk lunch at Gemini Bistro, Alex directed us to Fleet Feet. I was in the door before I caught on to the man and his mission: “What size shoe do you wear?”
“Nine. Why? Hey, you aren’t buying me shoes. I’ll buy them. Or I can just go get mine.”
“No, this is my idea. I’m buying the shoes.” He looked very serious.
“I’ll buy the shorts.”
“Shorts?”
“Alex, I’m wearing walking shorts and a blouse. I’m going to need more than shoes.”
“I hadn’t noticed that.”
“Thanks. I’ll have you know I thought about this outfit.” I feigned indignation.
“Sam, I didn’t mean that. You’re beautiful.” He stopped and looked at me—really looked at me. I tucked the compliment and the look away for safekeeping.
We wandered the store and I found everything I needed. Alex insisted on paying, and since he was being stubborn and makes far more money than I do, I let him. We then hoofed it to the Belden Stratford to change.
If you’ve never been to Chicago, I think the Belden Stratford is the equivalent of renting an apartment at the Plaza in New York. (No, I haven’t seen it. I’ve read
Eloise
.) Gorgeous, I would guess; a fortune, I guarantee. Alex’s apartment is there, near the top floor with a gorgeous view of the lake. We changed quickly and were off.
The day was perfect—mild, gentle breeze off the lake, and every moment felt charged with sunlight. Alex felt it too. The guy couldn’t stop smiling. It was an infectious good feeling.
You can always talk more deeply when running because it feels safe. You can’t directly look at the person next to you.
And you can’t hide much in so few clothes and so much sweat. Exhaustion also addles your inhibitions.
“How is Cole?” I was really asking about him, and he knew it.
“He’s better, Sam. I think that’s what my publisher knew—he needed to be pushed, but I was scared to do it. To push him means pushing me. That’s hard.”
Alex then asked me about my relationship with Josh. At our first lunch I told him I had a boyfriend but didn’t add much detail, and I’ve never provided an update. It’s embarrassing. I still feel stupid. But I was completely honest. I told Alex everything.
“. . . So that’s the end of my first real boyfriend. You know, we barely spent any time together all spring. That should have been a sign. I mean, don’t you want to be with your girlfriend?”
Subtle probe
.
“I haven’t had one in so long, I can’t remember.”
I threw him a scowl, suspecting he was deflecting or lying.
“I’m not kidding, Sam. But, yes, I’d want to be with her every moment I could. And when separated, I’d probably think about her constantly.”
“Then I wasn’t the one for Josh. He wanted ‘something’ from me all right, but not me. I’m pleased I came out as well as I did.”
“What do you mean?”
“‘He imposed on me, but he didn’t injure me.’”
“Is that Emma or Sam talking?”
“You are so good,” I laughed. “It’s both of us. Josh didn’t touch my heart. My ego and expectations, yes, but not my heart, not my soul. I walked away whole. I liked the idea of a
boyfriend more than I ever liked Josh . . . Maybe boyfriends are better in books.”
Now Alex threw me a scowl.
“No, seriously, most of my notions come from books, not reality.”
Did I admit that?
“Why is that?”
I had ventured as far as I could. I didn’t want to lie, but I also couldn’t break down, and possibly ruin, this moment and this friendship.
“My childhood wasn’t easy. I buried myself in books. I guess I’m a recovering book addict.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”
“What?”
“Deflect. Make light of something painful. And I know, by your tone and your expression right now, that it is.”
I watched the road. “Alex, sometimes the real answers are too hard.”
“To share with a friend?”
“Is that what we are?”
Did I ask that?
“We may be many things, Sam, but we are at least that.”
“Good to know. What else will we do today, friend?” I lightened my voice in hopes the subject change wouldn’t appear too abrupt.
Alex pushed two strides ahead. I surged to keep up. “Sam, I’m irritated with you right now. I want to stop running. I want to take you by the shoulders, shake you, and tell you that I care. I don’t want you to deflect with me, and I certainly don’t want you to change the subject when we start to get real.” He glanced at me, but I refused to pull my head or my gaze from the road.
“But clearly you’re not ready for that. Maybe neither of us
is. So I’m going to run even faster out of sheer frustration.” And he picked up the pace another notch.
I was speechless. I can’t tell you what I thought because I couldn’t think. Another four miles and I was exhausted. We ended up laughing, because neither of us backed down, and somehow we ended okay.
Alex didn’t press me again as we headed back to the Belden Stratford to change our clothes. I was still pondering his comment—and still am. I think more was said than what he actually said. But it’s like smoke; I can’t catch it.
We ended our perfect day with pizza, ice cream, and a walk around Old Town—then back to the professor’s car, still safely parked on North Avenue. I drove home singing. Now I should sleep. Needless to say, after eighteen miles, I’m exhausted. But, Mr. Knightley . . . Alex cares. I’m not sure what that means and I promise not to dwell on it . . . too much.
Sweet dreams,
Sam
Dear Mr. Knightley,
Cara was taken to the Cook County Hospital emergency room yesterday with broken bones and internal bleeding. She actually gave Father John’s name and number as next of kin—and he called me.
Oddly, I was looking at an old picture of us at that very moment. I found one last week and have been using it as a bookmark, hoping it would help me figure out my next step with Cara. I had apologized, but still felt we weren’t done. Closure? Forgiveness? Something more flickered out there.
So I grabbed my bag, asked McDermott if I could leave an hour early, and headed the few blocks to the hospital. Father John was alone in the waiting room. He stood when he noticed me and pulled me into a hug. He whispered, “She’ll be fine, Sam.”
“What happened?” I stepped back and looked into his sad, tired eyes.
“Ric pushed her down the stairs. She’s got a concussion, two broken ribs, some internal bleeding, a shattered wrist, and bruising. She’s pretty beat up.” He looked like he was going to cry, but I was angry.
“Where’s Ric now?” I wasn’t a six-year-old anymore, and I wanted a fight.
Father John pulled me back into his arms. “Let’s focus on Cara now, Sam. She’s safe. Both of you are safe.” He took my hand and led me to a chair in the corner.
Then I noticed that we weren’t alone in the waiting room. It was packed: mothers with crying babies, teenagers hanging over chairs like old coats, older men chatting in quiet voices.
We reached our seats, but he didn’t let go of my hand. He started patting it like he was soothing a small child. “She had surgery to set her bones, but she’s scared. And she’s broken more than physically.”
The nurse came and led us to Cara’s room. She looked small and fragile, with the
blip beep blip
of her monitors making the only noise. Father John took her hand and whispered a prayer. I stood by the door and watched. As he crossed the room to leave, Cara glanced at the door and noticed me.
“Hi, Cara,” I whispered.
“I’ll visit tomorrow, Cara. You rest tonight and chat with Sam. God bless you, my dear.” Father John left us.
I crossed the room and stood next to her. “I’m sorry, Cara. Can I help? Somehow?” I waved my hands around the room, the monitor again the only noise.
She turned to me, tears running down her face. “Why are you here, Sam?”
“I’m here because this is where I should be. I never gave you enough credit, Cara, and I left you when I should have helped.”
“It happens.” She laughed, small and bitter. “No one ever sticks around.”
“I’m changing that, Cara. I’m sticking around for anyone who means anything to me. It’s tough, but I’m learning to do it.”
“Do I count in that group?”
“Sure. Why not?” That’s who I want to be—a friend who
sticks—sticks to Kyle, to Ashley, to the Muirs, to Alex. I want to be someone to count on—someone with permanence.
“You won’t last,” Cara cried.
I tentatively reached out and stroked her hair. The gesture felt too personal, but it’s the most comforting feeling in the world when you’re sad or hurt. Mrs. Chapman used to do that.
“I thought Ric would last,” Cara said. “I thought he would marry me.”
Poor Cara still reminded me of Lydia Bennet. Lydia thought Wickham would marry her too, and it “did not much signify when.”
“Did he push you to make you leave?”
“He’s hated me for months.” She shook her head back and forth. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you.”
“You don’t need to. Stop. Don’t tell me anything.”
I chatted with Cara until the nurse kicked me out. As the Metra sped me home, a new memory flashed with each bump of the tracks. I saw the differences in Cara’s life and mine. I saw the similarities. I saw Josh and Ric, my Willoughby, her horrific Wickham. The window dressing may change, but as Austen shows us: human nature remains the same.
I visited Cara again after work today and snuck her some ice cream. As I got ready to leave, I decided to give her some advice—not that she ever listened to me before.
“Here it comes,” Cara groaned.
“What?”
“You’ve got that ‘I’m-going-to-solve-your-problems’ look.”
“How do you know that?”
“You always thought I was too dumb, but I listened, Sam. And I know that look.”
“Oh.” I remembered some of the ways I had dismissed her in high school. “Since you know it’s coming, here it is . . . You need to go back.”
Cara blanched. “He’ll kill me.”
“Not to him. To Grace House.”
“Forget that, Sam.”
“You’ll live in Independence Cottage—no Dr. Wieland if you don’t want to talk, no social workers, no meds if you don’t need them. It’s a safe clean place to live while you get your GED and some business classes.”
This is her Medill—her one shot to make a new dream. I wanted her to see that, and I tried to convince her by sharing all the good things that have happened to me: Grace House, Kyle, Roosevelt University, Medill, and the
Tribune
. I left out Ernst & Young.
I also told her about my letter from Hannah, whom Cara knew from our days in Charing Cottage, describing her lovely beach wedding in Maine. I contrasted that with Constance’s glamorous ceremony in New York. I wanted Cara to see a bigger world in a whole variety of colors.
