Laura Miller - By Way of Accident

“You sold the farm?”

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head. “We moved to a place right outside of town not too long after you left.”

It’s almost as if some kind of understanding hits her. “That makes sense,” she whispers, nodding, as if to herself.

I want to know how that makes sense exactly. Had she wondered back here before tonight? Had she seen it all gone? Was she looking for me? I’ve got a hundred questions running through my mind, but suddenly, one pops to the forefront.

“Brooke?”

Her face turns toward mine.

“Your last letter wasn’t postmarked until February.” That’s all I say. I don’t ask her why she waited so long to write, and I try not to think about how I might not have ever lost her if she had written sooner — before we moved to town. I already feel like a damn sentimental Sherlock Holmes for saying that much.

She breathes out a sigh before she starts. “I did write you as soon as we got to Nashville. But just a couple months ago, when I got your last letter, my mom saw it. And I don’t know why, but I guess she felt compelled to tell me that almost a decade earlier, she had found two letters I had written to you in my dad’s desk drawer.” She lets go of a puff of air, and it sends the few strands of hair around her face flying up. “He had sneaked the first one, and then later, the second one out of the mailbox before the mailman could pick them up. My mom says he was just looking out for me the best way he knew how. He didn’t know you. And I guess, to him, you were just some stranger who lived hundreds of miles away and who had his little girl’s heart.”

I smile at her choice of words.

“But anyway,” she continues, “my mom found the letters months after I had written them, and she mailed them both.” She pauses. “But that was February, I guess. And I guess, you had already moved by then.”

I’m quiet, just mulling it all over. That explains it, I guess. And I guess I can’t be mad at her dad. My dad would have probably done the same thing in Rea’s case.

“River.”

I catch a glimpse of her light eyes, and instantly, I fall right back into them.

“Ask me what I took from Missouri,” she says.

I take a second and catch Winnie sniffing the stump of some old oak tree. “Besides a coonhound?” I ask.

“Yeah, besides a coonhound.” She laughs.

All right,” I breathe out. “Brooke Sommerfield, what did you take from Missouri?”

I can tell she’s trying to hold back a smile. She’s playing with her lips, biting gently on the bottom one to keep it from inching upward, I think. It’s driving me crazy, making my heart race and my breathing shallow. I always loved when she did that.

“You,” she whispers. “You were my Missouri thing, River.”

I search her face. I think I want to smile, but I’m also kind of at a loss for words, thoughts, everything, I think. I dreamed about this moment so many times. But it’s been a long nine years. Year upon year has a funny way of making you start questioning what you thought you knew. It sobers you, I guess.

“I almost gave up on you,” she whispers again. And this time, she turns her face toward the ground.

“Almost?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says, nodding her head. “Almost.”

The air around us grows silent — and it’s one of those loud kind of silences, the kind that makes you want to cover your ears just so you can think — as I try to soak up her words.

“I was here not too long ago,” she says.

I lift my gaze. “What?”

“I came back here to this creek where I met you, where you used to live,” she says. Her eyes seem to wander off. “I came here to find you. But when I got here, there was nothing — just a bunch of fields. It broke my heart to see it all gone. But I sat at this creek anyway, and I convinced myself that it was silly of me to even come here. I promised myself that I would let your memory go in peace. And then I left, and I thought I was leaving it all behind. I thought I was leaving you behind — for good.”

Her eyes wander back to mine, and she smiles. “I was leaving, and I saw that For Sale sign at Mrs. Catcher’s. And I figured if I couldn’t have you, maybe I could still have this place. I think I had hoped it would fill me.”

My heart is aching as I process her words. I don’t know exactly what Brooke is saying yet or how she feels or even if she’s willing or able to take another chance on me. But suddenly, I feel as if I’m thirteen all over again, and I’m just trying to figure out how I feel. I never imagined I would have to put any thought into this. I always thought that if I saw Brooke again, I wouldn’t even have to think about it; I’d know my answer. My answer would be her; I would choose her — every time. But I guess that’s before Amy wondered back into the picture again. And as much as I might feel thirteen, I’m not thirteen anymore. And the damn thoughts that come with age are clogging everything up. Is it Amy or is it Brooke? Brooke’s a dream — something beautiful and fragile — and not because she’s fragile but because dreams are always fragile. Brooke’s something young and wild, untamable. Amy’s real — something I can put a name to, touch, feel. Amy’s now and predictable, something I can count on — for the most part. And there’s something about predictable that seems so much more alluring now than it did when I was thirteen. If I ever got the choice again, who would I choose? Amy or Brooke — the present or the past, real or a dream.

Behind my eyes, there’s a battle raging. I wonder if Brooke can see it. I shut my eyes for a moment and drag in a long, deep breath.

“River.” My eyelids lift. She’s staring at me. I know she can see. She could always see things I never thought she could.

“Life passes you by when your eyes are closed.”

I chuckle once and then catch her smoky green and gray eyes staring back at me. “You’re right,” I say, nodding. “You’re absolutely right.”

Ipull up to the diner on 6th and Cherry. I asked her to meet me here. I have something I need to tell her.

I step inside, and immediately, I spot her, but she doesn’t seem to notice me. For a second, I question my decision, and I think about turning around and walking right back out. But I don’t. Instead, I shuffle slowly down a small aisle lined with little blue-padded booths. There are only a few tables occupied in the dining area. It’s eight. Most have already eaten their suppers by five, sipped on their coffee until six and are long gone by now.

“Hi,” I say. I pull out a chair across from her and take a seat.

She starts to smile, but her lips only make it halfway up her cheeks when I notice the change in her eyes. “There’s something wrong,” she says.

I’m not sure if she asks it or merely states a fact.

I swallow hard and just start right in. I’m going to go crazy if I don’t get this out soon.

“I had some of the best times of my life with you. There’s no mistaken that,” I say to her.

I stop on that thought. All the memories of us together are running on a carousel through my mind. At some of the images, I want to stop and stay for a while.

“River, don’t say it.” She shakes her head, and I’m jolted off the carousel and into her eyes. “Don’t say it,” she repeats.

There’s pain in her expression. I’m sure there’s pain in mine too.

“Who, River?”

My brows furrow. “What?”

“I know it’s someone. I can see it. Who is it that’s stealing you away from me? Who is she?”

I look down at the little table that separates us. I want to grab the bill of my cap, but I’m not wearing one. I look back up at her. Her sad eyes burrow a tunnel of hurt into my own. I was never in the business of making a girl sad. I think about if I want to tell her. Does she really want to know or is it just her damn curiosity getting the best of her, and she’ll regret asking the second the name falls from my lips? I wonder what’s best, and I’m really wishing life came with a manual sometimes. How is it that man has existed for all these years, and still, there’s no right way to tell someone that your heart belongs to another?