The last month was hell. Without Harley to tell my troubles to, it felt like I was drowning in problem after unsolved problem. My mother came for a visit, which was normally fine with Harley as a charming buffer, but I couldn’t manage her by myself. She was wonderful and I loved her, and we only lived an hour apart, but when she came to stay, it was usually with the predetermined notion that my life was somehow lacking. Now more than ever, I was inclined to agree. If history taught me nothing, it was the words, you’re right, Mom, could lead to some dangerous decisions.

It was my own fault, really—this week-long visit. Before Vegas, I spent my lunch hours chatting with Harley. After Vegas, I started calling Mom, relating my sadness, whining about my rather pathetic loneliness. The inconsequential details of my day that made Harley chuckle somehow made my mom believe I was in need of a parental cuddle. It was from one such call I was returning to the office. I stopped at reception. “Any messages?”

“I sent them all to voicemail, but um, this came for you.” A plain white envelope with my name in Harley’s curved penmanship. “Want me to throw it away?”

In the past month she’d stood by and watched as I tossed the bouquets of flowers, gave away the boxes of candy, but I’d listened to and saved all his messages—the hundreds of apologies, the soft pleas for forgiveness I committed to memory. Why should this letter not join those?

“No. I’ll take that.” As I lifted it from the counter, I resisted the urge to sniff the envelope, to see if he left some citrusy scent of himself on the paper.

My secretary, Lianne, a very competent college dropout I couldn’t have replaced if I tried, smiled up at me. “How was lunch?”

I shrugged. “Taco salad.” Because we’d been working together for more than two years, I didn’t have to ask for the antacids she handed me. “Thanks.”

“We’re all going out tonight for drinks. You should come.” In the office, she was a fireball of happiness. I needed some of that right now.

I used to be fun, used to go out for drinks and dinner. I used to have a life beyond sitting in my apartment watching romantic comedies and crying over the loss of my best friend. Besides, it was Friday. I had a whole weekend to wallow. “You know what? That sounds great.”

Her eyes widened and she smiled as if she thought she would have to work harder to earn a yes. “Really? You’ll come?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I think I will.” The letter was burning a hole in my hand, and I spared it a glance that I probably shouldn’t have. In the second it took to see his writing, the depression was back, and I was already reconsidering my night out in favor of one spent in pajamas with a full schedule of self-pity. I stood at her desk, shuffled from one foot to the other to avoid my office and opening the letter. Whether it was another apology or a final kiss off, I wasn’t going to take it well. If it was from any other man, or from an old friend, or a client or my credit card company, I would have called Harley. Any of those would have had me dialing his number, but now, who was I supposed to call to talk me through this?

“Did you need something else?” Her eyebrows were high on her head, and her mouth flattened to a thin line—her helpful look, as if she knew I was lost.

“No. Just hold my calls for a while. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to put them back through.” If she noticed the quiver in my voice or the light shake of the antacids in my hand, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she nodded and turned to her computer.

I walked into my office and set the letter in the middle of my desk. I just needed a cup of coffee first. I kept a machine in my office, and I popped in a pod then stood there staring until the mug filled. Maybe I should drink it before I open the letter. Nothing like a little caffeine to calm my shaky nerves. I threw a glance at the desk. The dark wood contrasted with the stark white of the envelope, and when I slanted my glance and blinked rapidly, the letter appeared to wink at me.

Shit. Why was I being such a baby about this?

I could sit in a room full of arrogant, wealthy men and tell them they were running their companies into the ground. I didn’t sugar-coat anything, and I didn’t waste words to smooth over any hurt feelings. Facts were facts, and no one paid for me to turn their horrors into some livable fairy tale. But one little piece of paper folded inside another had me practically cowering behind my credenza.

Still, I waited out another mugful of flavored courage before I bent to pick a piece of lint off the carpeting and walked across the room to deposit it in the trashcan. I sat at my desk and noticed that the chair clients sat in wasn’t parallel to its partner. Once I moved it, the couch angle was all wrong. By the time I decided my desk should not face out into the room, but be perpendicular to the window so I could use the view to inspire some shred of brilliance, there was furniture blocking the door. My office wasn’t big enough for a move on this scale, and I’d pinned myself in behind a desk too heavy for me to shove more than a few feet. But still, that damned envelope glared at me.

My limbs ached and sweat plastered the back of my shirt to my skin, so I sat on the floor amid my furniture faux pas and pulled the letter to my lap. With my finger, I traced the curves of my name and imagined Harley’s firm grip on the pen, his smile as he added the flourish underneath. God, I must have really missed him if the thought of him writing had me romanticizing that simple act.

With a sigh and shoulder-wiggle of determination, I opened the flap.

Dear Sophie,

In all my life, I never imagined a day I wouldn’t talk to you or see your face. You are in every memory I have, and I don’t think that’s a coincidence. I think the reason I only have memories with you in them is because they’re the only ones worth remembering. But hanging onto you is killing me. I don’t blame you for this. It is just a truth that is now my reality. And I know it’s all my fault.

I made a mistake. I should have told you a long time ago how I feel about you. The fact is I was too chicken shit to face a rejection from the only person who’s ever mattered to me. I don’t know that I would have survived hearing you say we’re better off as friends. I even lied to myself. It was easier for me to believe I had a good reason for tricking you. But who am I kidding? I wanted to be married to you. I wanted you to want to be married to me, to choose me over anyone else.

I’m not trying to justify my behavior. I know I can’t. I just wanted to say sorry and let you know I’ve transferred to the field office in Los Angeles. I can’t stand being here and not being in your life. I know it’s my own fault, and I want you to know how deeply sorry I am and how much I regret losing you. If you’re ever in LA, look me up, and if you ever need to talk or even just want to chat about the weather, I’ll always answer. I miss your voice. And your smile. I just miss you. So, I hope you’ll call, but if not, I understand.

Always.

H

---

To my credit, I didn’t cry until the third time I read the letter. Then, I bawled like I’d lost my best friend. Which I had. To Los Angeles.

No.

I was not going to lose Harley. I’d sulked and cried and whined it out long enough. I was a woman of action. I picked up my phone and waited for Lianne to answer. “Yes, ma’am?”

“Can you do me a favor?” I usually gave commands like an angry drill sergeant.

“Um, sure.”

“I need a flight to Los Angeles. And car rental.” This was the right thing. I knew it.

“Do you want me to use the company card? And who do I bill it to?” I heard her shuffling through drawers. Keeping track of things wasn’t her strongest talent, but she was a whiz with the details.

“Do you have my personal card out there?” I had to hope so or it could have been hours before I found my purse among the mess I’d made of my office.

After a slight pause and a clank that meant she’d dropped the receiver on the floor, she came back on the line. “Yes. You want me to use that one?”

“Yeah.”

After a few seconds of working out the details—hotel, coach or business class, explaining my absence—I heard the smile in her voice. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. Can you call down to maintenance and have them send their thinnest, strongest guy up here. I seem to have blockaded myself in my office, and I need help. He’s gonna have to squeeze through about a six-inch opening.”

This inspired a full-on guffaw, and I joined in because for the first time in a long time, I felt like laughing.