Paper Hearts

THEN: Chapter 18

 “How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” – A.A.Milne

Eden:

We didn’t speak for over a month.

He didn’t write, so I didn’t write – even though I was pretty sure it was my turn. He never called. He was never on Skype – because believe me, I checked. I knew I’d been a selfish bitch. I knew it was my fault. But at the same time, I was still really, really angry with him. Really angry. Because I needed him, and I needed him badly.

I had to push all the anger and the hurt and that terrible, nagging fear that he would never speak to me again to the back of my head, even though it hurt more to do that, in order to get through my exams. I came out of every one of them sincerely believing that I had failed – because in every paper, there was something. Something that had his essence, that made me picture his lopsided grin and the scar along his hip bone and those ridiculously beautiful eyes of his. Or sometimes I’d be writing, scribbling as fast as I could to get all my ideas on the page, and I’d register the sound of the charms he’d given me clinking and scratching quietely across the table – and it would just make me freeze. In my English Lit exam I sat there for a full five minutes just staring at that little green light and only started writing again when Ms Hugo poked me and glared as she walked past, determined as always that I should do my best.

Three days after my final exam, I got a letter.

Mum knew what had happened – I cried on her shoulder when I told her what a bitch I’d been – and she came running in with the letter like she’d just won the lottery.

“I told you he wouldn’t hold it against you!” she crowed, thrusting it towards me, “It’s his writing, isn’t it?”

I didn’t realise how tightly knotted in fear my chest had been until I held the envelope in my hands. My shoulders sagged and I tore at the paper, barely breathing – but the letter was short. The shortest he’d ever written.

Dear Eden,

After the most begging I have ever had to do in my life, I managed to wangle a weekend. This Saturday at nine in the morning, I’ll be at the station in Surrey. I booked us a room in the hotel nearby – we need to talk. This is important. Please come.

Your Ollie.

There was no love in the letter, no kisses, no flowery terms of endearment, and I knew exactly what it meant – but there was that one word, that one important word : “yours”.

And that was enough to make me smile, even through my tears.

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“Eden, dear, so lovely to see you! I’m sorry the girls couldn’t wait up to see you, it just got too late for them – “ Jane pulled me into the house and squeezed me in a fierce hug, “They were very disappointed, of course”

“I’m sorry, the train was running late” I hesitated, pulled out of the hug with tears in my eyes, “Are you sure it’s okay if I stay the night? I just didn’t want to miss his train in the morning, you know – “

“Of course you didn’t, it’s quite understandable” she kept her arm around my shoulders and ushered me in; once I was settled in the living room and she’d fussed around making me a coffee and arranging a plate of biscuits, she sat down beside me and wrapped her arms around me.

And I started to cry. I told her everything that I had said – and she tried to hide her gasps of horror, but I heard them all the same – and how I wished I had said things differently, or not said them at all –