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Past: Two Years Before the Accident—Twenty-Two Years Old

“Dude, did you fall in or something? You’re missing your own celebration party!” Rex pounds on the bathroom door.

We’re at Mystique, a new nightclub that opened inside The Orchid last week.

Deep, rhythmic thumping of the bass reverberates through the walls, followed by the cackling of my brothers and friends on the other side of the door.

The atmosphere is electric, the alcohol adding fuel to the fire, but instead of hanging out with everyone in the private room, I’m hiding away here.

I was promoted to senior analyst last week at work.

Trey clapped me on the back as he handed me a glass of whiskey in his office.

“What did I tell you, Delaney? You rose from failure and came back stronger. You deserved this.”

There was pride in his eyes.

After losing the company three hundred grand, I doubled down on my research, testing, and retesting theories with my own money before I suggested investment changes at Fleur.

I checked my work three times—on a computer, by hand, and even reading it aloud—before submitting my official recommendations.

It paid off. The investment changes yielded a two hundred percent return, a nice sum of two million dollars in three weeks.

The Deliminator was back in his game again and the office rejoiced.

“Thanks.” I raised the glass at him and took a sip .

“I only gave you advice. You did all the work. Don’t sell yourself short, D. Keep this up and someday I’ll be worried about my job.” Trey chuckled.

When I take the helm of this department, Trey would get a promotion—I’d make sure of it.

“Ethan! Dude, seriously. Did our parents swap the numbers in your birth year or something? Why are you hiding in there like an old man?”

Rex the menace.

Rex, the nuisance.

“You eat your meals on a set schedule, the same healthy green stuff every day. Shouldn’t your bathroom breaks be on a schedule too?”

I roll my eyes and ignore him.

“You’re so gross, Rex. And Ethan’s been better with his routines now. He’s here, isn’t he? And at the family dinner last week, I saw him wolfing down lasagna with a goofy smile on his face.” Lana’s dulcet voice travels through the door.

“Fuck, you’re right. But who the hell eats moldy cheese with lasagna?”

I bite back a grin.

I had Dreamer to thank for that.

I should be upset at her messing with my routines, but oddly, I’m not.

It made me feel closer to her.

“Ignore him, Ethan. I know it’s hard to introvert at a party!” Lana giggles.

“Don’t make me regret letting you come with us, missy.”

“Like you can keep me away, Rex. I’m not one of your women.”

“Ew! That’s disgusting. Why would you say that?”

The two squabble and I groan.

They won’t leave me alone until I respond.

“I’ll be out in ten. Just need a breather. Chill!” I holler and hear more grumblings from my brother and sister before their voices fade away.

I return my attention back to Dreamer’s latest entry in the journal and a rush of warmth infuses my chest.

Dearest Keeper of My Dreams ,

My heart stutters at the name she’s given me, even though I gave her my middle name in our text messages.

But there’s something more intimate in the old-school weekly journal habit we’ve kept up the last two months.

You were tricky with this week’s clue.

Dreaming of you,

A day, so special, and true.

The hummingbird’s sweet melody.

A future, so momentous, your harmony.

Is this your way of getting back at me with my clue a few months ago when I sent you to the DVD section for The Notebook ?

Your poetry is beautiful though.

Why don’t you write more and publish them?

When I first read it, I immediately thought of the courtyard outside the hummingbird window.

And I hope, someday, when I find my place in the world, I’ll be able to have that one special picnic there.

With you.

The thumping inside my chest quickens—every beat eclipsing the ruckus of the nightclub, which seems an entire universe away.

That’s her magic, my dreamer.

The breathtaking supernova illuminating the inky night skies.

Unbidden, a flash of red hair floats to my consciousness—the mystery girl who bumped into me a while back who brightened my dreary day with her presence.

But that was before I met Dreamer—she shines from within, sight unseen.

I know she’ll eclipse any women I’ll ever meet.

My Nova wants to spend her special day with the person she loves.

And she’s invited me.

I don’t want to overthink this, but I can’t help but overthink everything.

Her words, the softness in them, the sweetness, they all seem to be meant for me.

This connection I feel pulsating through black ink on white paper or digitized in our texts.

I can’t be imagining this.

I want to meet her.

Desperately.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, especially someone I’ve never seen.

I don’t know if she has short hair or long hair.

If she wears glasses and has curves, or if she’s tall and slim.

I don’t care.

I already know she’s beautiful.

Congrats on your promotion, Keeper.

I hate hearing the words, “I told you so,” but I can’t help but officially state…

I told you so.

I never doubted you, even as you doubted yourself.

Have you found your direction in life now?

Are you still as lost as when I first met you?

Good thing this past week: My parents visited from Milan.

We all went out for dinner like a normal family.

My brothers were angry with them, of course.

My grandmother pretended nothing was wrong.

And my uncle played the peacemaker.

But I was happy. For a moment there, I felt loved.

Bad thing about this week: Ironically, it was the flip side of my happiness at the dinner.

Even though everyone was focused on C, my oldest brother’s accomplishments at work.

Or they were concerned about whether L, my middle brother, would get arrested for whatever punk stuff he was involved in.

Grandma was sad when we talked about me starting my freshman year at UNYC in a month.

I’ll be the first in my family to go to a state school.

Essentially, I’m a failure and a black sheep.

But they all quickly told me it didn’t matter, that they’d take care of me, and I sat there feeling useless again, like I’d never measure up.

Stupid, huh?

The next day, my parents jetted off to Italy again.

Grandmother went back to her place in the Hamptons, and my brothers disappeared off to work or whatever it was they did.

I was alone again. But this time, I remembered I had something special.

I had you.

I was unforgettable.

My heart clenches when I read her words.

I feel her loneliness wafting off the pages and I wish I could go to her and pull her into my arms because she does have me.

Her family doesn’t appreciate how beautiful her soul is, but I do.

The sudden thoughts make me lightheaded.

I’m Ethan Anderson, the guy who doesn’t believe in love because I don’t want the heartbreak.

I don’t want to tempt luck or fate or whatever you call it.

I don’t want to be someone who stares at a Christmas tree, grief etched on my face because that was the favorite holiday of the person who still holds my heart, even after death.

But my resolve is weakening.

Maybe Ethan Anderson just needs to meet the right person.

Someone to make me brave enough to do what Dad did with Mom, what Maxwell did with his high school sweetheart.

Someone who cares for me sight unseen, not knowing if I was rich or poor, or if my last name would open doors for her.

I let out a ragged breath and keep reading.

And I felt better. Much better.

So thank you again, Keeper.

You’re my north star.

Your Dreamer

P.S. I hope you have fun at your party.

You deserve it .

P.P.S.

I’ve decided to start a bucket list. I’m calling it Twenty by Forty.

I’ll finish one item per year starting when I turn twenty (ah shit, I just revealed my age, didn’t I?

But I’m sure you figured it out already, with me talking about college and all).

Anyway, the items can include places I want to go, things I want to do, foods I want to try.

The skies are the limit.

Aside from getting my degree at UNYC and making my way into the world, I’ll also do something exciting.

Something that’s me.

Because you know what I’m going to say…

the clock keeps ticking…

yadda yadda yadda. I haven’t decided what to put on that list yet, but I’m open to ideas.

P.P.P.S. This week’s clue: Where blades sing in stanzas, and green verses celebrate life and nature.

P.P.P.P.S. Thank you for the art print of Eros and Psyche.

But I can’t believe you defiled the back of it by scribbling you don’t have a favorite Greek myth.

What kind of monster are you?

Seriously? How can you call yourself a poet?

P.P.P.P.P.S. The what-if question of the week: What if one day a big rock fell on my head and I lost my memories?

What would you do? And seriously, I still can’t get over how you don’t eat bacon.

What kind of weirdo are you?

If the world had no more bacon, I’ll die.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I swear, this is the last PS.

Why do I always end the letter early?

Ugh. What do you want for your promotion?

I want to get you a little something.

Emphasize little because I can’t hide an elephant in a library…

Well, I can’t hide an elephant, period.

See, this is why I should write our letters with pencil, then you won’t have to be subjected to this.

Here’s a four-leaf clover I found in Central Park earlier this week.

Sending good vibes your way.

I bust out in laughter, imaging a mischievous voice teasing me, then snickering at her own ridiculousness.

Her clue was tailored to me.

She knows I love poetry and chose a book that was famous.

Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman.

A classic.

I don’t think she’s trying to stump me anymore.

The books or films are code—a new love language—perhaps a combination of words of affirmation and gift giving.

Lana will be so proud of me for paying attention to her prattling on about the genius of the book.

I reread her ending question.

What do I want for my promotion?

I don’t need anything—I’m an Anderson; I have the world at my fingertips.

But I do want one thing only she can give. I want her.