“Sell her?”
“Yeah, you know, like Princess Bride. Dread Pirate Roberts? It was just a name, right, someone else slipping into the role, then handing it off to the next person who needs a cover.”
“You’ve been watching too much Netflix.”
She blows out a breath. “It’s a thing. For real. People do that shit. How many dead authors are still writing books from beyond the grave?”
I never thought about that, the idea that I could shed Dear Birdie like a shawl, put it on someone else’s shoulders. The thought is equal parts comforting and frightening. Who am I without Dear Birdie? I don’t even know.
“Do you want to be Dear Birdie?” I ask.
When she stops laughing: “Heeellll no. You must be out of your mind. I’ve got my own problems. I can barely handle the nonproblems—my boss won’t promote me, what is my purpose, am I following my bliss—I’m dealing with day to day on my own blog. Dear Birdie? Some of those troubles are dark.”
It’s true. Jax’s blog is a bit lighter, the problems more existential, the issues of people who are standing on solid ground. I wonder…could I, would I, shed Dear Birdie?
“What would I do about the podcast?”
“Just find someone who sounds like you,” says Jax. “That Dear Birdie voice isn’t your real voice anyway. It’s like you’re channeling someone.”
“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”
“Some,” she says softly. “Wren, I just want you to find a little joy, take a little time for you. Can you do that when you’re tethered to your past? When you spend your days listening to everyone else’s heartbreak?”
We don’t find many true friends in our lives. Everyone’s always looking for love, right? That perfect soul mate. The candy, flowers, trips to Paris, romance. No one ever talks about the power and comfort of a true friendship that endures years. The friend who worries about you, is there when you call, brings soup when you’re sick, camps out on your couch when you’re sad. There aren’t many friends like that. If you have one, be grateful. I know I am.
“Don’t worry about me,” I tell her. “I’m okay.”
“Okay,” she says. “We can keep talking about it. In the meantime, I’ll cover her tomorrow. But then you need to take her back.”
“Deal.”
“Oh, hey. There’s a message—not spying on your email but something forwarded from the old account. You know—the one from the blog where you used to get the Dear Birdie letters. I couldn’t log in to see what it was.”
Sometimes people email their letters to that old address. It’s still floating out there in the eternity of the internet. I should close the box. But I hate the thought of someone reaching out and just getting an error message. I check it periodically.
“I’ll take a look.”
She draws in and releases a deep breath.
“Let him go, Wren. What I said about taking back your power, finding justice. Forget it. Just move on. Let that place go. Come on home to the life you’ve made. It’s a good one.”
“Tomorrow. I promise.”
Silence, then, “Love you.”
“Love you more.”
I try to sleep but I can’t—every time I start to drift off I’m chasing Robin, or chasing you, waking with a start as I trip and fall, or catch a wrist and find myself holding on to a ghoul.
Finally, I give up on sleep and open my laptop, I log on to the old account. There’s only one message from a strange address, just a number and an unfamiliar server.
I open the message.
Dear Birdie,
I didn’t think it was possible but I’ve fallen in love. Crazy love. The kind that makes you question all your choices, makes you want to be a better man. I’ve made mistakes. Terrible ones. In fact, the kind of mistakes some people would never be able to forgive. Regret is a burden I carry, day and night. It sneaks up on me in blank moments. It wakes me from sleep. I know it will never leave me.
I was about to share myself with this woman. She shared herself with me, bared her soul without fear. But just as I was about to open up to her, my past came back to haunt.
There’s someone at my heels, wanting me to pay for the things I’ve done. And maybe this is right. Maybe I don’t deserve to love or to be loved after the things I’ve done. But I just wanted my chance to show myself to this woman, to let her judge me, so that I can know whether I could ever be truly worthy of her.