My dearest Olivia,
I wish I were with you to celebrate your twenty-fifth birthday. I want to see it all. You growing from a girl to a strong, sure woman. Your first novel published. Your first love. Marriage. Family. All those firsts that I will never be able to hold your hand through. I don’t have a letter for every occasion. Just this one.
You’ll be graduating soon, after taking care of me for all those years while studying and holding down a job. Even as a small girl, you always had an old soul—too serious and cautious for your age. But this is your time to be young, free, and have fun.
Once upon a summer, I ran away from a fiancé and a life that had become too small for me. I vowed to take a risk a day, and it changed everything. I shocked everyone modeling—nude! I discovered my passion for photography, for men, for everything life had to offer. During one glorious summer, I did all the things I shouldn’t, and I loved every minute of it. It was my summer to be wild, my summer of risks.
I want that for you, my dear. Make this your summer of risks. Risk, so you don’t regret. Take a risk a day, like I did so many years ago. Step out of your comfort zone and see where your wild will lead you.
PS: I am your dead grandmother, so you have to do as I say.
Love always, Nanna
I’m a mess. Maybe drinking a bottle of champagne by myself while reading a letter written by my “dead grandmother”—her words, not mine—was not such a great idea. After a long crying spree, I sniff and wipe my nose on the sleeve of my cardigan. Then, deciding that’s too gross even for me, I pull it off and toss it on the chair closest to my bed.
A risk a day. It’s just like Nanna to direct me from beyond the grave. She always pushed me to be bolder, to take more chances.
But I know firsthand what being bold does. My mother sped through life recklessly—and died that way as well. Luckily, I had Nanna. And I had the lessons of my mother’s life to use as a cautionary tale. Any feelings of restlessness, I firmly squash. I always thought the safe, sure path was the right one, but I wonder if I haven’t gotten it a little wrong.
I look around at my bedroom. It retains the vestiges of my childhood. The twinkle lights I put on my headboard in ninth grade at Christmastime are still there. My bookshelf is a timeline of my life, from Black Beauty through to my favorite mystery writers.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s late, past 11:00 p.m., so I know it’s Remington. He says he travels for work, so he’s often in a different time zone. And even when he isn’t traveling, he’s a night owl like me. Our conversations regularly occur in the midnight hours when the rest of my world is asleep.
Grabbing my glasses, I stare at the screen, concentrating so as not to make any embarrassing champagne-fueled typos.
Remington:
You awake?
TypeWriterGirl:
I’m here.
Remington:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY.
TypeWriterGirl:
Sheesh. Don’t yell.
I try to downplay how pleased I am that he messaged again for my birthday. We don’t usually exchange personal information, but I’d accidentally let my birthdate slip a few years ago, and he’s remembered every year.
Remington:
So what’d you do tonight?
I roll over on my stomach, get comfortable, and flex my fingers. These night texting sessions often run long.
TypeWriterGirl:
Oh, you know… Two guys at once. They just left.
Brave words from the single girl with no birthday plans or dating prospects. Dots appear and disappear, indicating typing and deleting. Finally, after long minutes, his answer appears, short and to the point.
Remington:
Bullshit.
TypeWriterGirl:
It could be true. There’s a lot I haven’t told you.
Remington:
…
TypeWriterGirl:
And there’s a lot you haven’t told me.
Remington:
But only the unimportant stuff.
TypeWriterGirl:
Like your full name. Where exactly you live. Who you work for. Whether you have a dog. And, if so, what its name is.
Remington:
No dog, no name.
TypeWriterGirl:
No name for you or the dog?
Remington:
If I don’t have a dog, how can it have a name?
TypeWriterGirl:
Is this a philosophical question? Like what came first, the chicken or the egg? You could have a name picked out for your hypothetical future dog.
As I feared, my typing is slower than usual from being tipsy. My fingers feel too clumsy with my phone, and I keep having to correct mistakes.
TypeWriterGirl:
Wow. That took me a long time to type. My fingers are like sausages tonight.