ELLIOT
I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight . . . but I can’t sleep.
I haven’t been able to relax in what feels like weeks.
I’m mentally drained.
Kate’s in Hawaii . . . and all I want to do is go to her and make her come back with me, but her brother’s words keep rolling around in my head.
I know I could go to her, talk her around, and bring her home . . . but she needs to want to be here.
She knows how I feel and yet, she still left me.
How could I have fucked this up so bad?
I think over the events of that first week after she left and, to be honest, I’m glad Kate didn’t have to suffer it. I’ve had to lodge court proceedings to silence the gossip about the love triangle; it’s been a media-circus nightmare.
I lift my Scotch to my lips and sip it slowly, and the heat burns my throat as it goes down.
I’ve been sending Pinkie letters, and baring my soul, but something’s not sitting right.
I’m missing something in this puzzle.
I have no idea what it is, but as the days go by and still no word from Kate, my agitation grows.
I refill my glass of Scotch and light a cigar, blow out a thin stream of smoke into the crisp night air.
My mind goes back to the picture she had framed for me for my birthday and I smile. I go and retrieve it from inside and stare at it in my hands.
It’s a photograph of me taken from behind, in a navy suit, staring out over the lake with the ducks around my feet. It’s early morning and the mist is rolling on the paddocks in the background.
Such a simple image and yet somehow it feels so intimate—her secret view of me when I wasn’t looking.
I turn it over and look at the back of the frame, and I wonder what the photo looks like without the glass on it.
I retrieve a knife and undo the frame and I take the image out, turn it over and see her handwriting.
Happy Birthday my darling,
I love you.
Always, Kate.
My chest constricts and I read it again . . . and again . . . and again.
Always, Kate.
Always means forever . . . until it didn’t.
I lift the cigar to my lips and inhale deeply. I’m sad and forlorn, full of regret.
My hands are tied, I can’t contact her. I can’t make her come home, no matter how much I want to. I have to do this on her terms and respect her decision.
She has to want to come home to me.
And I hate it.
I tip my head back and drain the glass, then I fill it again so fast that it sloshes over the sides.
Patience isn’t my strong point.
Two months.
I write to her every day . . . and yet, no word back.
Does she even get my letters?
“Thank you,” Christopher says to the waitress as she puts a plate of fortune cookies down in front of us.
It’s Friday night and Christopher has dragged me out for dinner.
I want to be anywhere else but here.
He passes the plate over to me. “Take one.”
“Pass.”
He shoves the plate in my face. “Fucking take one, you love this shit.”
I roll my eyes and take one, crack it open.