Page 61 of Dear Mr. Knightley

Dear Mr. Knightley,

Summer is over. My internship ended two days ago.

I wrote sixteen articles under a joint byline and seven under my own name.

I edited seventeen of McDermott’s pieces, and by the end he trusted my voice and my judgment.

He was a great mentor and I think he liked working with me.

He hugged me as I left the building and said, “You did good, kid.”

I’m sad that it’s over. I didn’t knock the ball out of the park—Mike actually won an award for one of his fifteen solo articles—but I did good, solid work and I’m proud of it.

Ms. Ellis asked me to apply for a full-time job after graduation.

I didn’t get an offer, but she didn’t say good riddance either.

But now Alex is gone too, and I’m sad all over again.

We spent the past two days in a frantic effort to see all that remained of Chicago: another Cubs game, Navy Pier, one museum, six different restaurants, a last run along the lake .

. . He jotted notes and I took pictures, building details for the book as we walked along.

I think he may even use a few of my quips and quotes—and he hinted about giving Cole a girlfriend.

“What happened with that detective Cole hated?”

“I never said he ‘hated’ her.”

“He should.”

“Why?”

“Conflict drives emotion, Alex. If he hates her at the beginning, he can love her at the end.”

“You are so set on him getting a girlfriend. Don’t you think once he finds someone, he’ll be all in? He’s a pretty intense guy. What if she doesn’t feel the same? Best not to rush it.”

I pondered this. “Don’t avoid it, though. That’s a cop-out.”

He laughed. “Love stories are too easy. They’re trite. Cole doesn’t need that.”

“Then don’t make her light and easy—make her tough, and real, and flawed. I’d like to read about that, because if it’s difficult, but beautiful, then I’ll believe it can be real. And you can draw that out. Complexity will give Cole time.”

Alex stopped and stared at me. “Okay, I’m sold. You sure you want to be a journalist?”

“For now. Gotta use all this training. But I’d like to write a children’s book someday—a book of fun stories that go completely wrong, but end well with the kids tucked into bed safe and happy.”

“That I’ll read.”

And that was how these two days felt too—safe and happy. I was so desperate to hang on that I asked if I could take him to the airport tomorrow.

“You’d have to get up at three thirty. I’ll take a cab.”

“It’s no big deal. I’ll go back to bed after.” My face flushed. I must have sounded pathetic.

Alex touched my chin and turned me toward him. “Have dinner with me tonight instead?”

“It’s your last night. What about your friends? Jim . . . or that other guy?”

“I’d like to spend it with you. I’ll pick you up at six?”

“Sure.”

I hopped the train north to go home and change. I could barely breathe for how pleased I was to spend his last evening with him. What to wear? What to wear? That one thought consumed the half-hour train ride.

After scrounging around, I settled on a fitted black sundress with a cream shawl. I also wore a pair of high wedge sandals that I could never wear with Josh. I love Alex’s height. When he arrived, I walked steadily to his car and didn’t feel like a tree. In fact, I felt quite pretty.

He took me to Topolobampo on Clark Street and requested the chef’s five-course tasting menu.

It started with Sabana de Jitomates , tomatoes in sherry dressing.

The tomatoes were so sweet against the pungent sherry that you could feel the sensation at your lips and again at the back of your mouth.

My favorite course after that was the Borrego al Pisilla , lamb infused with black garlic.

And last came dessert—in a class by itself.

Pastel de Chocolate, Helado de Menta . It’s a fancy Spanish way to say devil’s food cake, glazed with chocolate crème and served with mint ice cream.

I think that’s when I closed my eyes and sighed.

(If you’re wondering how I remembered all this so well—I asked to keep the menu. I’m sappy.)

Over the past several weeks Alex and I have met almost daily for coffee, lunch, dinner, runs, shopping trips, grocery trips, movies . . . But tonight he let me see more.

We’d been talking about our history with friendships, and for the first time he mentioned a woman named Simone. It was casual—too casual—and the hair on my arms stood up.

“Tell me more about Simone?” I tried to sound indifferent. I was scared he’d laugh it aside, when I could tell it was important.

But he sat back in his chair, and I could tell he drifted in time. Maybe all good writers do that: they don’t remember, they see. Alex can weave a story or describe a scene so distinctly that you feel you’re there. He went back and I followed.

“Simone . . . I haven’t thought about her in a while.

There was a time when she was all I thought about.

” He paused and focused on some spot beyond me.

“We met my last fall at Columbia. I was writing Redemption and Simone was working at Jarad-Patel, the hottest gallery in the meat-packing district. She was gorgeous—tall, raven-haired, half French. She knew she had allure, knew she could wrap us all around her finger. But I thought I was different. I was just young and stupid.” He glanced at me and grimaced. “How old do you think I am?”

“Maybe thirty?”

“I’ll be thirty in a few months. That’s a lot older than you.”

“Mmm . . . five years, Alex. That’s quite a gap.”

He gave a self-deprecating smile. “A lot’s happened in those years, Sam.”

What did this woman do to him? I took another bite of the cake and leaned forward. I couldn’t tell if eager attention or dessert-induced distraction would get me back into the story, so I landed in the middle.

“After only a few months together, I asked her to marry me. She put me off with kisses and a bit of French, telling me that we shouldn’t rush and that she loved me. And rather than pull away, Simone drew me tighter. But she wouldn’t accept my proposal.

“It became a dance—one she choreographed. At first I wondered if she might be right, maybe I was rushing—wanting stability and assurance from her because I couldn’t find it in my career or anywhere. I don’t know.” Alex sighed and stayed silent a moment.

“So I spent the next year chasing her, while working in a coffee shop, editing Redemption , and outlining Three Days Found . I turned down ‘real’ writing jobs, and that infuriated Simone. But I felt Cole Barker could make it, and the coffee shop gig paid me enough to survive and gave me the time and freedom to write.” He grabbed a bite of cake from me with a smile.

“HarperCollins then bought Redemption and gave it the biggest marketing campaign in its history for a new author. The publicity assured the book’s success before anyone ever read a word.” He glanced at me again—gauging my reaction? I wasn’t sure. I took another bite and nodded slowly.

It was enough, and he continued. “Fortunately for me, the public loved it. Word of mouth took off, and Redemption leapt to the top and stayed. Cole Barker was an American hero, and I got movie offers and a contract to make him a series. It was unbelievable. And Simone wanted a ring. At first I was thrilled—it all worked. My book was a hit, and the most beautiful woman in the world loved me. Then it felt wrong, and I couldn’t understand why.

“That’s when I met Ben. He’s that pastor Cole meets in Salvation Bound . I hated him at first because he made me see how much I was getting wrong in my life. Three Days Found was due at Harper, but I couldn’t finish it. Couldn’t write a word.

“And I couldn’t envision life with Simone.

I could see us at a party—we were always at parties and openings—and maybe even at the wedding ceremony, but I couldn’t picture the day after that or the day after that.

We never stayed in, never rented a movie, never cooked dinner or talked deeply . . . We were never simply together.”

I nodded. Alex’s eyes showed an intense amount of longing.

I hadn’t seen this vulnerability in him all summer.

I wanted to hug him, but that definitely would have ended his story.

And, unlike when he offered me comfort after the professor’s heart attack, this wasn’t that moment.

He was somewhere else—with someone else.

Alex continued. “But how to communicate that? Simone loved to go out, and after Redemption sold, she quit her job and was relentless. When I protested, she pouted, then quit speaking to me. And when she finally looked at the book, she was livid. I hadn’t put my picture on the cover. ” He smiled, small and flat.

I remembered my question the first day we met. Here was the answer.

“The end came when I asked my agent to negotiate an extension on Three Days Found . I saw a new direction for Cole. I wanted him to have more integrity, more strength, more vulnerability even, and I knew those changes were within him and within me. I wanted this new series to be good, really good.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to release not only tension, but words.

I nodded. “You did that. What did Simone think?”

“She believed that asking for an extension constituted failure. To punish me, she started going out with friends I didn’t know and ignoring my calls. Our wedding was weeks away. And I got physically sick.”

Alex looked back at me and paused. He studied me for a moment, and I realized that for the first time in his telling, he was with me—not trapped in his memories with Simone.

I smiled with sympathy—I certainly understand losing oneself to the point of being sick.

If I’d had the courage, I would’ve confided in him.

I would have told him all my past, my fears, my longings, my everything.