Jennifer Hackney is dead and left in her wake are two people very important to her; Anna Gilmore and Harry Jones.
Anna is struggling to cope after the death of her best friend and is headed in one direction-rock bottom.
Harry insists he's fine afte...
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Dear Jen,
I'm in love! Rome is incredible! The food is out of this world and the wine. Oh, the wine! Even Harry—renowned beer drinker—is enjoying it.
"I like it here," he informs.
The breeze ruffles his hair and the scent of his shampoo travels. Lemongrass, I think.
"It's peaceful."
"Yeah," I agree. "It's easy to forget reality when you're somewhere like this."
The sun is setting and there's a touch of pink in the sky. The kind of pink you always said reminds you of cotton candy. In fact, if I close my eyes, I can convince myself I'm at a carnival. You loved carnivals. I don't know why. Screeching children and panicked parents is my idea of hell, but you saw past all that. You saw the good in everything. Is that why I'm here? Is this trip the silver lining to your death?
"Does that worry you?" he asks.
I snap open my eyes, a little disorientated. "Huh?"
"Returning to reality."
Wow—deep.
"I guess."
"It worries me," he admits.
The way he looks at me is unnerving. Like he's reading my soul.
"You quit your job, right?" I question, taking a generous sip of wine.
The fruity taste does nothing to calm my nerves.
Why is he looking at me like this, Jen?
"Yeah. I'm unemployed."
"Join the club," I say, raising my glass.
He clinks it and laughs.
"So, what's the plan?" I press.
I don't know why I ask him that. Usually, I feign disinterest. It's easier that way. Easier to convince myself the feelings I have don't exist.
"I don't have any," he says. "I'm living each day as it comes."
"Wise. The future isn't guaranteed, anyway."
The intensity of his gaze grows.
"Sorry—I know you don't like it when I'm cynical."
"When have I ever said I don't like it?" he questions.
What the hell do I say, Jen?
"Umm—"
"You do that a lot," he continues. "Presume other people's judgements of you."
Do I?
"It's easier that way. It makes it less of a shock when people don't like me."
"People do like you," he argues.
I laugh in his face.
"What?"
"Don't lie, Harry. I'm unbearable! Jen was the only person who put up with my shit and I ask myself why every day."
He sighs. "Anna—"
"What?"
"Jen loved you."
"I don't know why."
"Because she knew the real you," he explains. "The Anna who likes taking photographs. The Anna who has a chocolate addiction. The Anna who wants to learn how to roller skate because she thinks it's the closest feeling she'll ever get to flying."
How the hell does he know all this?
"Not the person you pretend to be."
He finishes his wine and stands, the material of his white shirt rising slightly as he does so. It's a momentary relapse, but I look. I look at his toned stomach. The sun-kissed skin I've imagined so much is here in the flesh and I feel fucking awful for appreciating it. For wanting to touch it.
"You're not unbearable, Anna," he whispers, perhaps scared to speak it any louder. "You're lovely."
