The Love Letter(7)

She sighed. “Well, I’ve never been good at being sneaky, have I?”

“Not really,” I said, hoping my curt reply would put her off becoming chatty. The last thing I wanted to do right now was discuss this with Kathy.

“I’m sorry, Mark. I just—I—I know how much you loved her once. That kind of love is a rare gift, you know. And the resentment over losing it was tearing you up inside. You two were so….”

“Sis, could we talk about this another time? I can’t—can’t really talk at the moment. Can I call you back later?” I was still hoping against all reason for a call from Justine. Or a text. Or smoke-signal. Or some other sign of acknowledgement whatsoever. Please don’t let it be silence. I could take anything but that, though it might be what I deserved.

“I just wish…wish that it had all been for something.”

So did I. After we said goodbye, I closed my eyes and put down the phone. I chugged the entire bottle of beer and snatched up another. I was on my third when the doorbell rang.

I suddenly remembered that I’d invited Eric over to celebrate the end of exams. I snapped open the door without looking in the peephole.

It wasn’t Eric.

Justine.

Tears in her eyes, on her cheeks. Her cell phone in her hand. My heart stopped beating until she spoke.

“Mark.” It was a hoarse whisper. A plea. An exultation.

I would learn later that she had gone to the airport early and checked her baggage. It had taken her time to retrieve her belongings, filling out papers and speaking with an airline official about pulling out of her flight.

I said nothing as I watched her from the doorway. Then, I took her into my arms, held her close. Her tight sobs in my ear struck arrows to the core of me.

“I always loved you,” I said.

“I never stopped. But why? Why now? After everything…”

I backed into my apartment with her still in my arms. We kissed. She tasted the same, and different—a trace of coffee and that cinnamon gum she loved. She tasted better. Our lips met in quiet understanding, mutual forgiveness, passionate reunion  .

When we finished, I rested my forehead against hers, her question still hanging between us: Why now?

I took a breath to finally respond. I hoped that she would understand my answer. “Jane Austen made me do it.”