Page 6 of The Best Wild Idea (Off-Limits #3)

I purposefully packed today with more coaching appointments than usual and have been running between them with less time than I prefer.

I didn’t want one empty moment to dwell on today’s anniversary.

And now that this last session is over, I can feel the angst of getting through the rest of my evening drawing out like a choppy river I’d rather not sail down.

But what choice do I have?

I plan to shut myself in, open that bottle of wine I bought a few days ago for this exact purpose, and have a good cry while flipping through old photographs of Grant and me before placing them all in the box I have ready to shove under my mattress for safekeeping. All before passing out cold.

Tomorrow, I’ll wake up to day number three hundred and sixty-six with a clean calendar hung on my wall, void of any red X’s. No more painful reminders of how far I’ve come staring me in the face every morning.

It’ll be a fresh start.

My fresh start.

That’s the plan anyway. I just have to walk three blocks back to the townhouse we shared — the one I live in all by myself now — before I can totally fall apart while basking in the comfort of a good sob behind a closed door.

I say goodbye and set off down the sidewalk for my short trek home.

Weaving between women meandering while they hold their toddler’s hand or passing businessmen in tailored suits talking too loud into their AirPods, I walk with a purpose.

I’ve spent the last year deliberately putting one foot in front of the other and now it feels like I’m in the final sprint toward home to cap off the race.

No celebratory champagne waiting, and no selfies to brag with online about how my perseverance has really paid off.

Just me, a bottle of red, and a box of what reminds me of what I lost.

In the beginning, when I’d initially resumed my coaching schedule to make ends meet and pay all the bills that had started piling up after he died, I could barely make it through a single coaching session.

All the fake dates I had to take my clients on reminded me of him.

The way one would carefully lay their napkin across their lap.

Or the time a man next to me ordered Grant’s favorite ale on tap.

I’d had to excuse myself from the table to have a good cry in the ladies’ room before slathering on a fresh coat of under-eye concealer and carrying on back at the table afterward as if nothing had happened.

Even chuckling halfheartedly at a client’s joke somehow felt wrong in those early days, like I shouldn’t have been allowed to laugh when my heart had just been buried six feet under.

Laughing somehow meant that I’d forgotten what had happened, if only for a moment, and forgetting wasn’t allowed.

Not to me. I nearly gave up, but something in me kept going.

And lately, against all odds, I’ve felt that unmistakable nudge to live again.

I pick up my pace.

The late spring evening feels warm. I pull my hair up into a makeshift bun, tossing it off my collar before opening up the first two buttons of my emerald-colored cardigan — the one with the buttery yellow buttons that I love.

After an unusually cold, wet winter, warmer weather is finally knocking — nearly ready to break through Boston’s bleak winter skies.

A few birds chirp above, perched in the branches of the tree-lined street while tulips and azalea blossoms jut out of wooden garden boxes painted white, all strung together in a pattern that lead me toward home.

We’re all bursting out of hibernation together, ready to get moving again it seems.

I rush around the final corner onto my street, but immediately slow my pace when I notice a man I’ve never seen before.

He’s probably around nineteen or twenty, standing on my front porch.

His hair is rumpled, longer than average, and so dark that it’s nearly black — exactly like Grant’s was when he was still alive.

For one gut-wrenching moment, my brain tricks me into thinking that it’s him, turned up here and back from the dead somehow.

I walk closer. No, Grant will never stand there again , I remind myself.

No matter how much I want to hear him greet me or fill our home with laughter instead of nerve-bending silence, it’s not possible. It’ll never be possible.

My stomach sinks when I see his doppelganger is holding a white envelope.

“Not more legal work,” I mutter to myself. “Not today.”

I, with the help of Grant’s parents, finally wrapped up everything having to do with his will a few months ago, and I don’t think I could handle any more of that type of paperwork right now.

Possibly not ever again. His parents were sweet the whole time, but I could tell that I slowly became one more reminder of the son they lost. I haven’t heard from them since the final documents were filed, and the sale of the Smithfield building was complete soon after.

Probably too painful for them to see me, I imagine, but I find it hard to believe they’d spring something new on me like this. Especially today.

“Juliet Hart?” the man asks, turning around when I walk up the steps.

“Yes?” I ask wearily, praying that he’s just a roaming door-to-door solicitor who somehow knows my name. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to drop this off.” He holds the envelope out to me but I don’t take it. Instead, I eye him suspiciously. “I was hired by Monica Braverman to deliver this to your address. Does that name ring a bell?”

“No.” I frown. Then I study the envelope between us, still not reaching for it, but looking for a clue of what it might be. He shakes it a bit in my direction as if that might entice me enough to grab it. It doesn’t. “Are you serving me court papers or something?”

He shakes his head, amused.

I cross my arms, waiting for a stronger answer than that. I don’t normally take random envelopes from strangers, especially without recognizing the name of who they’re from and Monica Braverman is not a name that I recognize.

“I’m not serving you papers,” he promises. He looks friendly, I’ll give him that, then again I’ve never encountered a process server. “I have no idea what this is. Honest. I’m just supposed to deliver it. Monica is my boss. She’s a travel agent.”

“This isn’t one of those you’ve won a trip scams, is it? Where you show up with some papers, claiming I’ve won a fancy trip, just to get me to call a number and give you all my personal info. Because if it is, I’m so not interested.”

“I’ve never hand-delivered anything to one of her clients, and this is not a scam. Which tells me this is something seriously important.”

He rustles the envelope at me.

I reluctantly take it, but when I flip it over for a closer look, my heart skips a beat. My name is handwritten in what looks eerily similar to Grant’s handwriting.

Your imagination is on fire today , I scold myself, burying any traces of false hope.

The anniversary of his death must be making my brain misfire all the tiny synapses that miss him to my core, making me see things that aren’t there. Whoever this Monica Braverman is, she probably has similar penmanship to Grant. That’s all.

“Thank you,” I say, squeezing the envelope between my fingers for any indication of what might be inside. But it’s papery and flat, not giving anything away. “Is she—?” I start to ask, but he’s already skipping down the front steps of my porch, looking relieved to have fulfilled his duty.

He waves over his shoulder.

“Have a good day!” he calls before disappearing around the corner.

“The best day,” I mutter, turning to push my key into the door.

I cross the threshold and shut myself inside.

Silence embraces my nervous system like a warm hug while I study my name on the envelope.

The way the J loops around is enormously exaggerated while the rest of the letters are scribbled so tiny beside it.

Exactly the way Grant used to write my name.

An absurd little spark of anticipation bubbles up in my stomach before I can shove it back down again.

If only. I close my eyes, willing the thought to be real.

But no.

This is from someone named Monica. Not Grant.

I beeline to the kitchen, envelope in hand, tossing my keys and purse onto the counter so I can rip it open, slowly making my way toward the recycling bin under the sink.

I’m expecting to see a few colorful sales flyers boasting travel services by whoever she is while I pull out the papers from inside.

But my hands begin trembling when I see the delicate stationery is covered with the impossibly familiar script — one I never thought I’d see again.