Page 44 of Lipstick Kiss

“Luke,” she snapped.

He ignored her and rose to his feet so fluidly he looked like a dancer the way he moved. On the wall opposite where he was sitting was a map of the world, six feet wide and three feet high. It was mounted on a wooden frame with spongy cork behind the map. Luke moved forward and pressed the different coloured pins. He traced the thin wool strands to mark the various routes he’d made every time he’d gone travelling with his brothers and sister.

“What do these numbers on the stickers mean?”

“I don’t want to tell you,” Freya said.

She felt stupid for keeping every letter and postcard he’d sent her. She felt ridiculous, marking every journey he’d made and tagging where his favourite places were. Places he’d said he wanted to take her because he thought she’d want to see it. Freya hadn’t ever left the UK, although she’d always had a passport. So she felt foolish when she renewed it, hoping Luke would ask her to join him on his set of three weeks off when they coincided with her school holidays. But he never did. The four Turner siblings were closer than any family members she’d met.

Luke turned towards her and then froze. She mustn’t have hidden her expression of hurt quickly enough.

“I’m sorry, Freya. I’m not making fun. I really love that you’ve done this.”

It wasn’t him pointing out what she’d saved that hurt. It was that he hadn’t saved her words. She wrote to him twice when he was on the rigs during his three weeks on and then waited for his letters and postcards when he was on his three weeks off. She’d sent the letters telling him everything that had happened on the island since the previous letter and sealed the back with a kiss. The lipstick she was wearing would stain the back of the envelope. He never answered the questions she’d asked in a letter with his next letter because they rarely arrived in order, so she needed to piece together what she’d asked with his replies. She kept a copy when she wrote him a letter, so they were all in order.

“It’s all right. We should get going to search while it’s daylight.”

“What do the numbers mean, Freya?”

“They log which postcard or letter you sent from overseas. There aren’t many from the rigs, so they’re in a separate box.”

“You have boxes of my letters?”

“Look, Luke, maybe we should go ancestor matching another night. I have a lot to mark, and I could do with getting started.”

“Freya,” he said, coming right up to her and cupping her shoulders. “I’m sorry I made fun of you for keeping the letters. Where are the boxes?”

She couldn’t keep the glum expression off her face and nodded to the wardrobe over in the corner next to the window with the curtains drawn.

He gave her a warning look to silently ask for permission to go and look, and she nodded. His hand slipped down her arm, and he clutched onto her fingers so he could drag herover to the wardrobe. Then, with his free hand, he opened the doors and gasped.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered.

Still holding her hand, he opened the drawer at waist level and pulled it out. Stacks of envelopes and single cards were neatly stacked. The top edge was perfectly sliced to lift out the letter inside. Freya tried to pull away, but he squeezed her hand in warning. She relaxed without him looking at her. He lifted an envelope out and then placed it on top of the stack. Luke chuckled at his scrawl on the front. Picking it up, he squinted at the faded postmark.

“Vienna,” she whispered.

“You know which letter this is?”

“Yeah, you met a girl you fell madly for. She took you to the opera. It was your first time.”

Luke could hear the sadness and gave her a sharp look.

“I don’t remember her name,” he muttered.

“Dita.”

“Jesus,” he whispered.

“Does this feel creepy to you? I can box all this up if it freaks you out,” she said, moving to put the letter back in the correct place.

She closed the drawer slowly and quietly with the palm of her hand, then pushed the wardrobe doors shut. With one hand, Luke wasn’t grasping tightly.

“No, I’m not creeped out. I feel honoured you kept these, my words and thoughts. I poured everything into those letters. They were my escape to tell you what I was feeling, the thoughts I couldn’t share with my siblings because they were hurting as much as I was.”

“You know it wasn’t your fault, right?”

“I should’ve been able to do something,” Luke said.

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