I lifted my phone from the kitchen island, looked at the screen, and didn’t recognize the local phone number. Nonetheless, I answered.

“This is Porter.”

“Porter Reeves?”

“Yes,” I responded. “This is Porter Reeves.”

“Mister Reeves, my name is Martin Wicks,” the man said. “I’m Abby Northrop’s attorney.”

It had been two days since Abby’s death. We learned that her cancer returned, and she’d passed away from the bloodborne illness. While her parents were planning her funeral, I was struggling to survive without her. I couldn’t fathom living a life without her in it.

“This is Porter,” I said.

“Mister Reeves, I called to inform you that Abby has left a current will, and a letter, which is addressed to you. I’ll need you to come by, post haste. It was her wish that you make it here before the funeral.”

My hand went numb. “She…she knew…she knew she was dying?”

“On the contrary, Mister Reeves. She knew nothing of the sort. She was, however, a very thorough woman. She updated her files with the firm as life-changing events happened in her life. At any rate, there’s a letter here for you, and I’d like to go over the will with you. When can I expect you?”

My heart raced at the thought of reading a letter that Abby had left me. Short of her YouTube videos, there were our text messages, some pictures on my phone, and a handful of surfing videos to remember her by.

“Where are you?”

“La Jolla. Right off Miramar Road. Wicks, Frankham, and Beane. I’ll text you the address if you’d like.”

“Sure.”

“See you within the hour?” he asked.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

It seemed strange to see Abby’s handwriting on a sheet of paper that she’d written while in good health. Fearing that she’d addressed her death, I folded the sheet of yellow paper and looked at the attorney.

“Can I take this in the other room?”

“Second door on your right is the conference room. You’ll be alone,” he said. “Take your time.”

I walked to the room, pulled the door closed behind me, and turned on the lights. After taking a seat at the end of the table, I unfolded the sheet of paper and took a deep breath.

Porter,

Just so you know, this is the third letter like this I’ve written to you. The first was the day after I met you. After the rattlesnake hunt. I knew on that day that you were special. I wrote the first letter just in case something happened to me. After battling cancer, I realized we simply never know where life is going to take us. We have much less control over our destiny that we’d like to admit.

The second was the day after we made love. Two days after the first time you kissed me.

As you know, I like to talk, and having the last word is a pretty big deal to me. So, I’m having the last word.

It seems creepy knowing that if you’re reading this I’m no longer with you. In writing this, I can’t imagine going a day without you. As you’re reading this, I suspect you’re having a hard time dealing with the fact that I’m gone. Well, I’m having an equally hard time writing this.

Believe me.

I’m truly sorry for whatever grief you’re feeling right now, and I wish I could comfort you. Maybe you’ll one day find comfort in the message this letter contains.

An advantage of this letter is that I get to say things without you rolling your eyes or getting mad. So, here we go.

I’m in heaven. That’s right. Heaven. I’m far from perfect, but I’ve asked for forgiveness for my sins, and I imagine God’s granted me that forgiveness.

I know you don’t believe in God, and don’t expect this letter will change much about your beliefs. But. I’m going to do my best. I have nothing to base this on but a hunch, and based on that hunch, I’ll make a deal with you.

*hand shake*

You keep on believing what you believe. I love you as I’m writing this, and I’ll love you from the heavens above. I can’t tell you to never move on with your life, but I can tell you this. Well, I guess I’m asking you.

Ask God for forgiveness. It’s simple. Just say, “God, this is Porter. Porter Reeves. Forgive me for my sins.” That’s it. That’ll get you a pass to the pearly gates (maybe they’re gold, so don’t quote me) Then, when you get to heaven, I’ll be waiting. I’ll be easy to find. I’ll be sitting right at the gate with my legs crossed, and a piece of pecan pie in my hand.

Here’s where the hunch comes into play. You and I are connected by the love that we share. Just to prove to you that there is, in fact, a heaven, I’ll predict this: one day you will experience something. You will not be able to explain it, but you will know it’s from me. I don’t know how it works, or any stuff like that, but keep your eyes open for any signs I may send you.

I don’t know what we’re able to do from up here, but I’ll do my best to prove to you that God exists, and that I’m here waiting.

Until we meet again, believe.

I love you.

Abby.

The hair on my neck stood.

I read the letter again, twice.

I stumbled into the attorney’s office with the letter clutched in my hand. “Did you read the letter?”

“I did.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. “Do I have to?”

“You do not.”

“Is there anything else?”

“The will. I’ll need to go over that with you. She wanted you to have the home. She left some money in a trust for you as well. She left a considerable amount to charity, through various trusts. She also left specific instructions for her funeral. Her parents have a copy of them, and she’s asked that you review them as well.”

“What are they?”

“They’re lengthy,” he said. “I’ll let you read them.”

After reading her requests for the funeral, I laughed. For the first time since the night before she died, I actually laughed.

Out loud.

“Is this everything?” I asked.

He stood. “Yes, Sir.”

Instructions in hand, I turned toward the door with a grin on my face.