Николас Спаркс - The Longest Ride

When all the arrangements for the initial and subsequent auctions were completed – it was impossible to sell all the art in a single day – I talked to both Howie and the appropriate representative from Sotheby’s, outlining their responsibilities, and had them sign numerous legal documents, ensuring there could be no alteration to the plan I envisioned. I wanted to prepare for any contingency, and when everything was finally ready, I signed my will in front of four witnesses. I further specified that my will was final and not to be altered or modified under any circumstances.

Back at home, in the aftermath, I sat in the living room and gazed at the painting of Ruth, tired and satisfied. I missed her, maybe more in that instant than I ever had before, but even so, I smiled and said the words that I knew she would have wanted to hear.

“They will understand, Ruth,” I said. “They will finally understand.”

It is afternoon now, and I feel myself shrinking, like a sand castle slowly being washed away with every wave. Beside me, Ruth looks at me with concern.

“You should take a nap again,” she says, her voice tender.

“I’m not tired,” I lie.

Ruth knows that I am lying, but she pretends to believe me, chattering on with a forced insouciance. “I do not think I would have been a good wife to someone else. I think I am sometimes too stubborn.”

“That’s true,” I concede with a smile. “You’re lucky I put up with you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I am trying to be serious, Ira.”

I stare at her, wishing that I could hold her. Soon, I think to myself. Soon, I will join her. It is hard to keep talking, but I force myself to respond.

“If we’d never met, I think I would have known that my life wasn’t complete. And I would have wandered the world in search of you, even if I didn’t know who I was looking for.”

Her eyes brighten at this, and she reaches over to run her hand through my hair, her touch soothing and warm. “You have said this to me before. I have always liked this answer.”

I close my eyes and they nearly stay closed. When I force them open again, Ruth has dimmed, becoming almost translucent.

“I’m tired, Ruth.”

“It is not time yet. I have not read your letter yet. The new one, the one you wanted to deliver. Can you remember what you wrote?”

I concentrate, recalling a tiny snippet, but only that and nothing more.

“Not enough,” I mumble.

“Tell me what you can remember. Anything.”

It takes a while to gather my strength. I breathe deliberately, hear the faint whistle of my labored exchange. I can no longer feel the dryness in my throat. All of it has been replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.

“‘If there is a heaven, we will find each other again, for there is no heaven without you.’” I stop, realizing that saying even this much leaves me breathless.

I think she is touched, but I can no longer tell. Though I am looking at her, she is almost gone now. But I can feel the radius of her sadness, her regret, and I know that she is leaving. Here and now, she can’t exist without me.

She seems to know this, and though she continues to fade, she scoots closer in the seat. She runs her hand through my hair and kisses me on my cheek. She is sixteen and twenty and thirty and forty, every age, all at once. She is so beautiful that my eyes begin to well with tears.

“I love what you have written to me,” she whispers. “I want to hear the rest of it.”

“I don’t think so,” I mumble, and I think I feel one of her tears splash onto my cheek.

“I love you, Ira,” she whispers. Her breath is soft in my ear, like the murmurings of an angel. “Remember how much you always meant to me.”

“I remember…,” I begin, and when she kisses me again, my eyes close for what I think will be the very last time.

29

Sophia

On Saturday night, while the rest of the campus was celebrating yet another weekend, Sophia was writing a paper in the library when her cell phone buzzed. Though the use of phones was allowed only in designated areas, Sophia saw there was no one else around and reached over, frowning when she saw the text and the sender.

Call me , Marcia had written. It’s urgent.

Minimal as it was, it was more communication than they’d had since the argument, and Sophia wondered what to do. Text back? Ask what was going on? Or do as Marcia had asked and call her?

Sophia wasn’t sure. Frankly, she didn’t want to talk to Marcia at all. Like the rest of her sorority, she was surely at a party or at a bar. She was most likely drinking, which opened the door to the possibility that she and Brian might be fighting, and the last thing Sophia wanted was to get involved in something like that. She didn’t want to listen to Marcia cry about what a jerk he was, nor did she feel ready to rush over and support her, especially after the painstaking way in which Marcia had continued to avoid her.

Now, though, she wanted Sophia to call her . Because whatever was going on, it was urgent .

Now that was a word that was open to all sorts of interpretation, she thought to herself. She debated for another few seconds, making her decision, before finally saving her work and shutting down the computer. She slid it into her backpack, put on her jacket, and headed to the exit. As she pushed open the door, she was met unexpectedly by an arctic blast of air and a thickening layer of snow on the ground. The temperature must have dropped twenty degrees in the last few hours. She was going to freeze on the walk back…

But not yet. Brushing aside her better judgment, she reached for her phone and tucked back into the lobby. Marcia picked up on the first ring. In the background, she could hear music blaring and the cacophony of a hundred conversations.

“Sophia? Thank God you called!”

Sophia drew a tense breath. “What’s so urgent?”

She could hear the background noise fading, Marcia no doubt in search of someplace more quiet. A door slammed, and she heard Marcia’s voice more clearly.

“You need to get back to the house right now,” Marcia said, a note of panic in her tone.

“Why?”

“Luke is there. He’s parked on the street out front. He’s been waiting there for the last twenty minutes. You need to get there right away.”

Sophia swallowed. “We broke up, Marcia. I don’t want to see him.”

“Oh,” Marcia said, not bothering to hide her confusion. “That’s terrible. I know how much you liked him…”

“Is that it?” Sophia asked. “I’ve got to go…”

“No, wait!” Marcia called out. “I know you’re mad at me and I know I deserve it, but that’s not why I’m calling. Brian knows that Luke is there – Mary-Kate told him a few minutes ago. Brian’s been drinking for hours and he’s getting riled up. He’s already getting some of the guys together to go after him. I’ve been trying to talk him out of it, but you know how he is. And Luke has no idea what’s coming. You might be broken up, but I don’t think you want him to get hurt…”

By then, Sophia was barely listening, the icy winds drowning out the sound of Marcia’s voice as she hurried back toward the house.

The campus appeared deserted as she took every shortcut she could, trying to reach the house in time. As she ran, she called Luke repeatedly on his cell phone, but for whatever reason, he wasn’t answering. She managed to send him a brief text as well but didn’t get a response.

It wasn’t far, but the cold February wind was bitter, stinging her ears and cheeks, and her feet kept sliding in the new-fallen snow. She hadn’t worn boots, and melting snow seeped through her shoes, soaking her toes. Wet snow continued to fall, feathery and thick, the kind of snow that would turn instantly to ice, making the roads dangerous.