Pen Pal

At eight o’clock sharp the next morning, Mr. Personality knocks on my door.

Pounds on it, actually, with brutal force. As if he’s the leader of a SWAT team, and he’s been tasked with taking down a group of crazed hostage-takers to save a hundred people’s lives.

I open the door and stare at him. “Good morning, Mr. Leighrite. What’s the emergency?”

Frowning, he looks me up and down.

Because the house is freezing, I’m wearing a bulky sweater with a down vest over it along with sweatpants and a scarf, but the man looks at me like I’m wearing a beehive on top of my head paired with assless leather chaps.

He asks, “You okay?”

“Do I look as if I’m not okay? No, don’t answer that. Why were you trying to break down my door?”

“I’ve been standing out here for ten minutes.”

“I see your sense of time is as good as your sense of humor.”

He holds up his arm. Wrapped around his thick wrist is a chunky black watch. Some kind of sports thing that tracks your steps and spies on you while you sleep. He taps the crystal. The readout shows ten after eight.

“Ten minutes. And for the fourth time, it’s Aidan.”

Didn’t I just look at the clock in the kitchen? It said eight on the nose. Flustered, I say, “Sorry. My clocks must be off.”

“Is your hearing off, too?”

Because it seems to be our thing, we stand there and stare at each other in silence.

Until he demands, “Look, are you letting me in or not?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, decide. I’m not getting any younger.”

How old is he? Thirty? Thirty-five? Hard to tell. He’s in great shape, whatever his age. God, those biceps are huge. And those thighs could crush a Volkswagen.

“Yes, come in,” I say too loudly, trying to drown out the idiotic voice in my head simpering over his big stupid muscles.

Avoiding his eyes, I leave the door open and turn and walk into the kitchen. I sit down at the table, then stand up again because I don’t know what to do with myself.

The front door closes. Heavy footsteps cross through the foyer. He lumbers into the kitchen and stands a few feet away from me.

We commence our silent staring game of Who Will Say Something Strange First.

I break under the strain before he does. “I have your money.”

He looks at my empty hands. “Do I have to dig around in your backyard for it, or are you gonna give it to me?”

“You know, I think you lied when you said you don’t have a sense of humor. I think you’re a big frickin’ comedian.”

“You can curse in front of me if you want. I won’t get offended.”

I take a moment to massage my pounding forehead before sighing. “That’s very generous. Thank you. I was up all night worrying about how not to upset your delicacy.”

“You’re welcome. And for the record, my delicacy is as solid as my humor.”

Either he’s trying not to smile, or he’s having painful stomach cramps. It’s hard to tell. The man has a face like a brick wall.

“You said a check was okay, right?”

He inclines his head.

Today he’s wearing another version of lumberjack chic, with an untucked, faded black-and-red plaid flannel to go along with the faded jeans. His boots are—

“Oh no.”

Following my gaze, he looks down at his feet. “What?”

“You tracked mud all over my floor.”

He glances back up at me. “You don’t have a doormat. And it’s raining outside.”

“You make a good point.”

“Plus, this floor is pretty dirty anyway.”

“Excuse me, but I just mopped it.”

“When? A hundred years ago?”

My neck starts to burn with anger. Man, this guy gets under my skin!

Glaring at him, I say flatly, “Yes, Mr. Leighrite. A hundred years ago. I’m going to go get my checkbook. Do I make the check to Godzilla or should I just leave it blank?”

“Godzilla’s fine,” he replies, gazing steadily at me. “What should I put on your receipt? Dragon Lady With the Sad Eyes?”

I can’t argue with the first thing. But the second one annoys me. “I don’t have sad eyes.”

He takes a beat to consider me before saying, “It’s none of my business, but if you need some help—”

“I don’t need any help,” I interrupt hotly. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Didn’t say there was,” Aidan replies softly.

But his gaze isn’t as tranquil as his voice. His eyes are like his fist pounding on my front door, loudly demanding an answer.

With my heart racing, I say, “You know what? I don’t think this is going to work. I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I’m going to ask you to leave now.”

Rain thrums against the roof. A gust of wind rattles the windows. Somewhere upstairs, a loose shutter bangs back and forth, rusty hinges groaning.

After a long, tense moment, Aidan says, “Okay.” He turns and walks to the front door.

I’m relieved until he turns back and gazes at me. His eyes are dark and penetrating. It feels as if they can see straight down to the bottom of my soul.

“But if you change your mind, Kayla, you’ve got my number.”

I don’t know if he means changing my mind about needing help with my roof or something else.

He walks out, closing the front door behind him.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull the scarf from around my burning neck and go to the powder room down the hall. I switch on the light, then stand in front of the mirror and look at myself, trying to determine what’s so wrong with my eyes.

I gasp in shock when I see the ugly purple splotches encircling my neck.

The one just beneath my left earlobe looks like it was made by a thumb.

Five days later, the marks on my neck have completely faded. I searched the internet for causes of unexplained bruising and found everything from diabetes to vitamin deficiencies.

Considering my poor diet and the amount of stress I’ve been under lately, I’m betting it has to do with that. I’m probably anemic, which would also explain the fatigue.

The marks could also have been caused by the accident.

But I don’t want to think about that. Because thinking about it would mean remembering it, reliving it, and I’m not prepared for that yet. I doubt I’ll ever be. I’ve put that horrible day into a box and put the box up on a high shelf in the back of my mind for safekeeping.

But knowing as I do that my mental health is fragile, I decide to attend a local grief group.

The meeting is held in a room at the senior’s center. A dozen or so folding metal chairs are arranged in a circle in the middle of an expanse of ugly brown carpeting. Against one wall, a rickety wood table is dressed with a white plastic cloth and set up with coffee and tea service and a tilting stack of Styrofoam cups. Posters of smiling seniors are tacked around with reminders to get your annual flu shots. The lone window looks out over the parking lot and the rainy evening beyond.

A few people are already sitting down when I arrive. I can tell by the way they’re chatting that they all know each other. Feeling anxious, I head over to the table with the coffee and pour myself a cup. As I’m debating whether or not I’ll stay or run out the door and make a quick escape, a woman walks up beside me and reaches for a Styrofoam cup.

“First time?” she asks, pouring herself a coffee.

“Yes. You?”

“Oh no. I’ve been coming to this group for six years now.”

She turns to me, smiling. She’s brunette, fortyish, and chic, wearing heels, an ivory Chanel suit, and a huge diamond ring on her finger. Her skin is flawless. Her haircut costs more than my entire outfit. She’s incredibly pretty.

I feel like a clod of dirt standing next to a unicorn.

She says, “You don’t have to participate if you don’t want to. There’s no pressure to join in. You’re welcome to simply sit and listen. That’s what I do. Sometimes just being around other people who understand what you’re going through is enough. Jan’s the group leader.”

She gestures to a lanky gray-haired woman in a flowing paisley dress who’s walking through the door. Jan greets the group and takes a chair, dropping her bulky purse onto the floor.

“I’m Madison,” the woman beside me adds.

“Hi, Madison. I’m Kayla. Nice to meet you.”

I want to ask why she’s here but don’t. I don’t know the rules yet. And I don’t want to offend someone being so nice who can probably tell I’m panicking.

As if she can read my mind, she says, “My daughter was kidnapped when she was four years old. The police never found her.”

I almost drop my coffee. Instead, I cover my mouth with my hand and whisper, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

Madison takes a sip from her cup, then stares down into it as if searching for something.

“It was my fault. I let go of her hand while we were shopping at the mall. Just for a second, to check a text from my husband, but when I looked up, she was gone.”

She lifts her head and meets my eyes. Her own are haunted.

“That’s the worst thing. That it was my own fault. That and not knowing if she’s still alive. The FBI said if a missing child isn’t found within twenty-four hours, they most likely never will be. They gave up on the search after six months because there were no leads. It’s as if Olivia disappeared into thin air. And every day since, I wonder what happened to my baby. Who took her. What they might have done to her.”

Madison’s eyes glaze over as if she’s gazing at something far away. Her voice drops.

“Olivia would be ten years old now. I can’t tell you how many hours I’ve spent searching child pornography sites on the dark web, looking for her. The only thing keeping me from killing myself is the hope that one day, I’ll see a girl in one of those awful videos with one blue eye and one brown, and I’ll get to hold her again.”

I think I might throw up. My hands shake so badly, the coffee in the cup sloshes around, almost spilling over the rim.

Madison turns her haunted gaze to me. Her sophisticated veneer has dropped. She seems to have aged ten years in a few minutes, leaving her looking like exactly what she is:

A woman living in hell.

Tears welling in her eyes, she says hoarsely, “Do you think she could forgive me?”

I want to burst out sobbing. But I rest my shaking hand on her forearm and say, “There’s nothing to forgive. The person who took her is evil. It wasn’t your fault.”

She smiles sadly. “That’s what my therapist says. But I don’t believe it. Neither did my husband. He left me for someone else. Someone much younger. I just heard they’re having twins.”

A voice calls out, “If everyone would like to sit down, we can get started.”

Stunned and sick to my stomach, I glance over at the group. Jan is waving to two people just coming through the door. When I turn back to Madison, she’s already pulling away.

I grip her arm and say desperately, “Has it helped you, this group?”

She looks at me for a brief moment before saying softly, “What do you think?”

Then she turns and walks away. She takes a seat at the circle and looks down at her coffee.

No one greets her. She doesn’t acknowledge anyone else, either. It’s as if she’s in her own little bubble of pain, cut off from everything else.

I picture myself six years from now, telling a stranger at this very coffee table about what happened to my husband and having her ask me if the group has helped, and know without a shadow of a doubt that my answer would be the same as Madison’s.

A big fat fucking no.

I set my cup down on the table and walk out without looking back.

Across the street from the senior center is a bar called Cole’s. Its yellow neon sign glows like a beacon. Ignoring the rain and not bothering with the crosswalk, I run straight across the boulevard and plow through Cole’s heavy wooden front door.

The moment I step inside, I spot Aidan Leighrite sitting in a booth in the corner.