Luca: Ah. Bird peeping. I should have known.
Doc: It’s a nonmigratory bird found overseas, so it couldn’t possibly be one. But if not a tit, then what is it? Last time I saw one, I was in England!
The fact that he’d mentioned England was strange—almost like a sign from the universe, given the letter from Griffin. Although technically the letter came from California. I really needed to take a breather and talk to Doc about this. I’d never mentioned Griffin to him before.
Luca: I need to talk to you about something. Can you come to me?
Doc: I think it would be good for you to try to venture out.
Sighing, I knew he was right. I needed to make sure he wasn’t in a congested spot, though.
Luca: Is the park crowded right now?
Doc: No. Not where I’m sitting anyway.
Luca: Okay. Can you let me know exactly where to find you?
Doc was sitting on a bench surrounded by pigeons when I arrived at The Falconer statue in Central Park. His binoculars were facing up toward the sky, and when he lowered them down to eye level, he jumped like I’d startled him.
“Well, looks like they found their spirit animal,” I teased. “I guess word got out that the biggest bird lover to ever visit New York City was in town.”
“I wish. It was the bread. Doesn’t take much to get their attention. The problem is, they don’t understand once you run out. The next thing you know, you’re in an Alfred Hitchcock movie.” He turned to me and examined my expression. “What’s going on, Luca? You seem a little anxious. Is being out and about bothering you?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Is the packing stressing you out? Do you need my help?”
“No. I’ve actually been pretty productive in that regard.” I carefully opened the coffee I’d just bought from the food truck around the corner and blew on it. “Something else has come up, though.”
“Oh?”
Taking a sip, I nodded. “I received an unexpected letter from an old pen pal. His name is Griffin. The letter was in the pile of mail that’s normally forwarded to me in Vermont.”
“What’s bothering you about the letter?”
“It was the first time I’d heard from him in many years, and it was . . . a little bit abrasive . . . taunting. Basically, he told me I sucked. It hurt because . . . he’s right in a way. I never really properly explained to him why I’d stopped responding to his letters eight years ago.”
Doc briefly closed his eyes in understanding, seeming to know exactly where I was going with this. “Eight years ago . . . the fire.”
I simply nodded.
Eight years ago, my entire life changed.
At seventeen, I’d been a normal teenager. Friday nights were spent sitting in the packed bleachers watching my captain of the football team boyfriend throw touchdown passes, going to the mall with my friends, and attending concerts. I couldn’t have even told you what agoraphobia was back then. I didn’t have a fear in the world.
My life as I knew it ended on the Fourth of July, senior year. It was supposed to be the summer of my dreams, but instead it became my worst nightmare.
My best friend, Isabella, and I had gone to see our favorite band, The Steel Brothers, in concert in New Jersey when some nearby fireworks landed on the roof of the venue, igniting a fire that engulfed the building. More than a hundred people died, including Isabella. My life had been spared only because I happened to be waiting in line in the concession area, which was downstairs and away from the site of the explosion.
“Well, you know how long I’ve spent feeling like I didn’t deserve to live when Izzy had to die,” I said. “If she had just been the one who’d gone to get the sodas, she’d still be alive. My mental state back then was so bad that for a while, I didn’t allow myself to enjoy any of the things that brought me happiness. One of those things was writing to Griffin. He lived in England, and we’d been writing to each other since second grade—a decade. Over the years, we became more than just pen pals. We were trusted confidantes to each other. When the accident happened . . . I just stopped writing to him, Doc. I fell into my own world and stopped responding. I let our friendship die along with all the other parts of me I felt were dead.”
Soon after that time, I’d also started to avoid crowded places, and over the years, my fears had only grown worse. Now at twenty-five, my list of phobias was long. The only good thing to come out of being an antisocial recluse was that it afforded me endless hours of solitude to write. My very first self-published novel ended up going viral a couple of years ago, and before I knew it, I had penned three bestselling thrillers under the pen name of Ryan Griffin and landed a deal with a major publishing house.
“Did you say his name is Griffin? Isn’t that your—”
“Yes. Ryan was the last name I used in my letters to him—it was my teacher’s last name. And the Griffin comes from that Griffin.”
He was intrigued. “That’s so interesting, Luca.” It had been a long time since I’d given Doc new material to ponder and analyze.
Around the time my books started doing well, I realized I wanted to take charge of not just my career but my life. That was when I’d found Dr. Maxwell, who was semiretired and the only shrink in Vermont who made house calls for the agoraphobic. What I didn’t know at the time was that Doc was even more peculiar than I was—which of course meant he eventually became my new best friend. Totally odd patient-client relationship, I know, but it worked for us. It helped that my tree-lined property was a bird lover’s haven.
“When was the last time before this that Griffin wrote to you?” he asked.
“He wrote a few times that first year after I stopped responding before he finally gave up on getting another letter from me. I was just numb back then. And by the time I realized what I’d done—that I’d sabotaged one of the most precious things in my life—I was too ashamed to write him back.” I sighed and admitted the painful truth. “In many ways, losing Griffin was my self-punishment for surviving the fire.”
He stared off for a bit to absorb everything. “Well, your pen name is certainly evidence that you’ve clung to Griffin in some capacity.”
“Absolutely. I’ve never forgotten him. I just didn’t think I’d ever hear from him again. I’m shocked. I can’t even blame him for having an attitude, though. In his eyes, I deserved it. He doesn’t know what really happened.”
“What’s to stop you from explaining now? Writing him back would surely be therapeutic and long overdue.”
“He hates me, Doc.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He wouldn’t have written to you all these years later if he did. Clearly, you’re still on his mind. He might be angry. But you don’t let anger get to you like that unless on some level you care.”
I knew Griffin had cared about me at one time. I’d cared about him deeply, too. Stopping our communication was probably one of my biggest regrets in life. Well, aside from offering to get the sodas at the concert.
As I recalled some of my memories of Griffin, I managed a chuckle. “He was so funny. I always felt like I could tell him anything. But the weird thing is, while he didn’t know my identity and vice versa, he probably knew the real me better than anyone at that time. Well, he knew the person I was.”