The article is in a large brown envelope, with his name on the front. She pushes it through the door, letting the letterbox clap loudly. She walks back to the front gate, climbs up, and sits on the brick pillar that supports it, her scarf pulled up around her face. She has become very good at sitting. She has discovered there is joy in letting the world move around her. It does so in the most unexpected ways.
“You spelled my name wrong. It’s R-u-a-r-i-d-h.”
She glances behind her, and he’s propped against the door frame, the newspaper in his hand. “I got a lot of things wrong.”
He is wearing the same long-sleeved T-shirt he had on the first time they spoke, soft from years of use. She remembers she liked the way he wasn’t fussy about his clothes. She knows how that T-shirt feels under her fingers.
“Nice piece,” he says, holding the newspaper up. “ ‘Dear John: Fifty Years of Love’s Last Letters.’ I see you’re the golden girl of Features again.”
“For now. Actually,” she says, “there’s one in there that I wrote myself. It’s something I would have said. Had I had the chance.”
It’s as if he hasn’t heard her. “And Jennifer let you use that Paddington letter.”
“Anonymously. Yes. She was great. I told her the whole thing, and she was great.” His face is even, untroubled.
Did you hear what I said? she asks him silently. “I think she was a little shocked, admittedly, but after everything that had happened, I don’t think she cared what I did.”
She stands there as he gazes at the article in his hands. “ ‘I was once told by someone wise that writing is perilous, as you can’t always guarantee your words will be read in the spirit in which they were written. So I’m going to be straightforward. I’m sorry. Forgive me. If there is any way I can change your opinion of me, please let me know.’” They had been the easiest words to write in the whole piece.
He folds the newspaper. “Anthony came here yesterday. He’s like a different man. I don’t know why he came. I think he just wanted to talk to someone.” He nods to himself, remembering. “He was wearing a new shirt and tie. And he’d had a haircut.”
The thought makes her smile, despite herself.
In the silence, Rory stretches on the step, his hands linked above his head. “It’s a nice thing you did.”
“I hope so,” she says. “It would be nice to think that someone got a happy ending.”
An old man walks past with a cane, the tip of his nose the color of red grapes, and all three murmur a greeting. When she looks up, Rory is looking at his feet. She watches him, wondering if this is the last time she will see him. I’m sorry, she tells him silently.
“I’d invite you in,” he says, “but I’m packing. Got a lot to do.” He places the folded newspaper under his arm.
She lifts a hand, trying not to let her disappointment show. She climbs down off the pillar, the fabric of her trousers catching slightly on the rough surface, and hoists her bag onto her shoulder. She can’t feel her feet.
“So . . . was there something you wanted? Other than to, you know, play papergirl?”
It’s turning cold. She shoves her hands into her pockets. He’s looking at her expectantly. She’s afraid to speak. If he says no, she’s afraid of how crushed she’ll feel. It’s why it’s taken her days to come here. But what does she have to lose? She’s never going to see him again.
She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to know . . . if you might write to me.”
“Write to you?”
“While you’re away. Look, I screwed up. I can’t ask anything of you, but I miss you. I really miss you. I’d—I’d just like to think that this wasn’t it. That we might”—she fidgets, rubs her nose—“write.”
“Write.”
“Just . . . stuff. What you’re doing. How it’s all going. Where you are.” The words sound feeble to her ears.
He has wedged his hands into his pockets and peers down the street. He doesn’t answer. The silence is as long as the street. “It’s freezing,” he says eventually.
Something large and heavy has settled in the pit of her stomach. Their story is over. He doesn’t have anything left to say to her. He glances behind him apologetically. “I’m letting all the heat out of the house.”
She can’t speak. She shrugs, as if in agreement, engineers a smile that she suspects looks like more of a grimace. As she turns away, she hears his voice again.
“I suppose you could come in and make me a coffee. While I’m sorting my socks. Actually, you owe me a coffee, if I remember rightly.”
When she turns back, his face has thawed. Actual warmth is still some degrees away, but it’s definitely there. “Perhaps you could run your eye over my Peruvian visa while you’re at it. Check I’ve spelled it all correctly.”
She lets her eyes rest on him now, on his socked feet, his too-longto-be-tidy brown hair. “You wouldn’t want to confuse your Patallacta with your Phuyupatamarca,” she says.
He raises his eyes to the heavens, slowly shaking his head. And, trying to hide her beaming smile, Ellie steps in behind him.