Page 91 of Scythe & Sparrow
I swallow and try not to tense as I point toward the inn just down the cliffs from where we stand. “Did you want to stay with me?”
Rose doesn’t answer. My heart folds in on itself.
“It’s … it’s got a nice view of the ocean …” She watches me, unmoving. “Umm … it has a pretty decent breakfast buffet. And waffles, you love waffles.” I grip a hand to the back of my neck when her brows raise like she’s expecting more. “It only has one bed though.”
Finally, her smile breaks free, as though she’d trapped it just to watch me squirm. “That was the selling point I was waiting for, Doc.”
We walk to the inn under the brightening stars, hand in hand. Every step we take makes me feel like I’m living someone else’slife. Like I could blink and learn this is all a dream, some delirium that will wear off, and then I’ll realize she was never here in the first place. And for a moment, I think it’s going to be an even worse fate when we get to the parking lot of the inn, and she looks toward Dorothy to slip her hand free of mine.
“Hold on a minute,” Rose says, taking a step back, and then another. “I’ll be right back.”
I nod. She gives me a flash of an unsure smile and then turns away, walking to the motor home with her hands shoved in her pockets. After a few brief moments inside, she returns with a backpack slung over one shoulder. “Just had to feed Barbara and get some stuff for the night.”
“Of course.” I hold out a hand and she takes it. Her touch is still hesitant, which seems unlike the Rose Evans I know, but I know it will take time to earn back the trust I tarnished. So I just stay steady, opening the door for her when we get to the inn, leading her to the room on the second floor that faces the sea. When we get inside, she goes to the windows and watches the ocean, sliding the backpack from her shoulder and onto one of the chairs.
“It’s a nice view,” she says, not turning away from the black waves that melt into the horizon.
“Yeah. It is,” I say, watching her. “Do you want something to drink? I’ve got tea. Bourbon.”
“Bourbon would be nice, thanks.”
I nod, but she doesn’t see, then turn to the small kitchenette to take the only two glasses from the shelf and fill them. I’m pouring the first drink when she speaks, her words turning my veins to crystals of ice.
“Dear Fionn,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.
I turn around, a slow pivot on my heel. She has a letter in her hands. The edges of it quiver in her grip.
“I got your letters. I keep opening them. I finally decided I should write back. I’ve never gotten letters like yours before. And I’ve never written to anyone. It’s almost ironic that they have nowhere to go.”
Rose’s eyes dart to mine, and I can’t move. I’m rooted to the floor. “I had a dream while I was in the hospital. That some broken hearts can’t be sewn back together. And I wondered if mine would be like that too. I thought so for a long time. And then your first letter came. I was angry. I felt empty. But getting that letter was like receiving the first stitch. It hurt. But it helped too. Every one since then has closed a little bit of the wound, even on the days when I didn’t want it to.
“The card you sent me today is the Three of Swords. You talked in your letter about how it represented heartbreak. There was pain and loss those last days we were together and in the ones since, you said. You worried about how I was feeling. But when I opened the letter and the card fell out, it was reversed. It means that the knives fall from the heart. Healing begins. That’s what your letter meant to me. Another stitch in a wound.
“So I hope you keep writing to me. And I’ll keep writing to you. I hope we heal ourselves and each other. I hope we’ll stitch back together. Because I love you, Fionn. I’m not letting you go. I never will. Love, Rose.”
She lifts her eyes to mine. And though I take a step in her direction, it’s Rose who closes the distance. When I have her in my arms, everything else in the world seems to fall away. “I meant it, Rose,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m not letting you go.”
She nods against my chest. “Me neither.”
For a long while, we stay that way, swaying to the music of heartbeats and breath. When we finally part, Rose takes off her jacket. I give her the bourbon and have my own. We sit on thebed, and she reads me her letters, one by one. We talk. We laugh. We fall asleep in each other’s arms. We start the slow process of stitching back together.
For once, I’m awake the next morning before Rose. I write her a letter. This one is about happiness. Relief. Gratitude. I end it the way I always do, with a promise. That I will never let her go. Then I leave it on the pillow before I slip from the room to get her a coffee and waffles from downstairs. When I get back to the room, she’s in the shower, her reply note already waiting on the little table next to the bed. Her letter isn’t just about happiness, or relief. It’s about want, and need. It’s an invitation. I leave the coffee and breakfast in the kitchen and then I join her in the shower, and we make love beneath the spray, savoring every kiss, every touch, every whispered word that was left unwritten.
Every day we write each other letters. Every evening we read them out loud. We talk through the way we feel. Sometimes we make love. Sometimes we fuck. Sometimes we fight. Or we laugh. Or we cry. But every day we heal.
We leave the inn after a few days, and then we hit the road with Dorothy and no real plan of where to go. We just stop at different campgrounds. Some evenings, we meet random travelers. Sit around a fire, Rose glowing in the flickering light. Her laugh gets easier as time passes, and so does mine. Other nights, we keep to ourselves and talk about the life we both left behind in Nebraska and the future that lies ahead. She’s ready to give Boston another try, she says, if I’m ready too. And I am. I know how much Leander would love to have me close as a physician on his payroll. He’s texted me five times since the Croatian contract finished to offer me a permanent job in Boston, even offering to help me setup a legitimate clinic of my own in the city so I can be there if he needs me. He could force me into it with the mountain of evidence he still holds in his gasp, of course. But truthfully? I’m ready to say yes. And though I think she’s trying not to let on, I know how much Rose wants to be closer to Lark and Sloane. I can hear it in her voice, see it in the way the idea lights up her eyes. “But maybe we could still take Dorothy out to stretch her legs in the summer,” she said last night when she climbed into bed.
“Yeah,” I’d said, pulling her against me. She laid her head against my chest and I pressed a kiss to her hair. “I really like that plan.”
And now, three weeks after our reunion in Ellsworth, it feels like we’re finally where we’re meant to be. On the same path. We’re walking side by side, our hands clasped, our shoes crunching on gravel as we draw closer to the cabin where Sloane’s BMW and Lachlan’s vintage Dodge Charger are parked. Barbara ambles along beside us on a leash and harness, sniffing the ground in her endless hunt for contraband snacks. The lights are on inside the cottage, illuminating the scrub grass that slopes toward a moonlit lake.
Rose squeezes my hand and I look down my shoulder at her. “You okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I reply, giving her the most relaxed smile I can manage. She’s not buying it, of course. Her eyes narrow on me as they sweep across every detail of my face. “It’s just been so long since I’ve seen Rowan and Lachlan. I’m excited. Maybe a bit nervous.”
My admission seems to appease her as she brings her other hand to circle my forearm. “They’re going to be so excited to see you.”
“Yeah, I just feel bad to have left it so long. I could have messaged them when I first got home.”
