Page 40 of Somewhere Without You
“Excuse me?”I shot back.“You don’tknowanything about me.”
Logan raised an eyebrow.“Are you sure aboutthat?”
I started to respond,thenthought better of it.“So, you’re a contractor now?”
He glanced down at his dirt-covered khakis.“Pays the bills,”he shrugged.
Now itwasmy turn to raise a brow.“You’re going to have to give me more thanthat.”
I didn’t have to spell it out—heknewexactlywhat I meant. The pausethatfollowed said enough. He ran a hand ran over his head, a nervous habit, and guilt crept up on me for pressing.
“I got out of the Army a few years ago.Did two tours in Iraq before beingdischarged.”He let out a short laugh, but it didn’t carry any real humor.“Afterthat, I figuredI’dspend my time fixing things rather than tearing them apart. So. . . here I am.”
Here hewas, eleven years later, the same Logan—yet somehowentirelydifferent.
“Anyway,goodluck with all this,” he nodded toward the mess of stones. “You shouldprobablygeta plumber out here sooner than later. Broken pipes aren’treallymy thing, and trust me, that’s not something you want to let sit.”
I searched for something to say—anythingthatmight keep him from leaving.Butnothing came. So Ijustnodded instead.
Iwatchedas he eased the door open, bracing himself as a gust of wind ripped through the front porch. The hinges gave way and the screen door tore free, crashing to the floor with a sharp, metallic thud.
Logan froze, staring at it, before turning to me.“Seriously? How long’s it been likethat?”
“SinceI got here,”I admitted, embarrassed.“Honestly, the whole place is falling apart.”
He sighed, bending down to prop the screen door against the side of the house. His eyesslowlymoved to the warped boards on the porch steps.“I’llseeabout getting a new one. Might need to fix a few of these boards while I’m at it.”
I fidgeted, uncertain. “Logan, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,”he cut in.“ForGran.”
“Okay,”I agreed, though part of me was still unsure.“ForGran.”
Logan gave me a soft, almost sad smile.“It’sgoodtoseeyou again, Emily.”
I nodded, swallowing the lump rising in my throat as Iwatchedhim head back to his truck.
He disappeared through a cloud of dust, andjustlikethat, hewasgone—leaving me alone with the memoriesI’dspentyears trying to forget.
Turns out, some things, unlike busted pipes and broken doors, aresurprisinglymore difficult to fix.
Twenty Four
January 22nd, 1864
West Virginia
Dearest Miss Hart,
Iscarcelyknowhow to begin, for my hands tremble more from the weight of your words than from the cold. I found your note nestled within my satchel, though how it came to bethere, I cannot say. The baghadbeen resting at my side for hours, yet when I reached for my tobacco, your letterwasthere, folded withgreatcare, as if ithadalways belonged. I must admit, I find myselfutterlybewildered. The date you penned, 2023. Can ittrulybe?Orhasmadnessfinallyclaimed me, as Finn so often warns?Ifithas, I will not fight it. I have done enough fighting for one lifetime.Andso, for tonight, I choose to believe you are real.
This satchelwasa gift from my late wife, Charlotte, God rest her soul. Itwasthe last thing she placed in my hands before I left for the war.I have carried it with me every day since, through cold dawns and blistering marches, through hunger and gunfire and grief. Ithasweatherednearlyas much as I have. How it ended up in your grandmother’s hearth, as you say, I do notknow. It baffles the senses. Yet, perhapsthereare forces at work in this world, unseen threadsthatbind souls across time and sorrow.
WhenI firstsawyour letter, I confess I feared it a message from beyond the grave, Charlotte’s spirit reaching back to me with some final word Ihadmissed.Wereit not for the difference in your penmanship, I might have cursed the thing and cast it into the fire, thinking it some cruel trick of memory.Butyour wordswerekind, laced with ache and honesty, and though I cannot explain how your letter reached me, I cannot deny the comfort ithasbroughtme.
You spoke of your losses. Your mother, your grandmother, your sister, and your husband. Such sorrow, such hollowing. I am sorry beyond measurethatyou walk this world so burdened.Butknowthis, tofeelsuch pain is proofthatyour heart still beats with love. It may notfeellike it now, but you are not broken. You are surviving. You are still here.Thatis no small thing. I cannot offer you wisdom, only this, loving someone with your whole soul changes you,evenafter they are gone.Thatlove does not vanish. It lingers in the spaces we do not expect.
I will refrain from inquiring about the future, tempting asit is. Hope is a fickle thing, and I dare not carry more of it than I already do.Instead, I ask, who are you,truly? What led you to write to a man long dead, if dead Itrulyam?
