I think we should go out on a date. One date. That way, you can see if you like me in person.
I’m about to go for a swim. And then I’m going to mail this letter to Howling Books. My friend Tim was putting the letters in the books for me, but he’s moved interstate.
So if you want to write back, send the letter to 11 Marine Parade, Sea Ridge 9873.
Love
Cal
Henry
life doesn’t always happen in the order that we want
I keep calling Rachel on the way to her place. I call again and again but she doesn’t pick up. I leave message after message. ‘I messed up. I just didn’t know what I know now. It’s you and the bookshop that I want. I don’t need loads of money. I can live without a definite future as long as you’re in that indefinite future with me.’
I’m in what I’d describe as a love fever. I ask the taxi driver if he can go any faster. He points out that we’re not going at all, since we’re stuck in a traffic jam. ‘Someone’s broken down up ahead,’ he says.
‘Of course they have,’ I say, and put my head out of the window to see what’s going on. There’s something close to a four-car pile-up, so we’re not going anywhere fast. I pay the fare, get out, and start running. The rain that Rachel predicted earlier starts to fall.
It’s one of those summer thunderstorms that really hammer the ground. The thunder rolls but I keep running, splashing water as I go.
By the time I reach Rachel’s place, I’m soaked. I bang on the door and yell Rachel’s name. Her aunt opens it and frowns. ‘I know I fucked up,’ I tell her, trying to speak through heaving breaths. ‘But I can fix it if I can just talk to her.’
‘She’s not here,’ she says. ‘How did you fuck up?’
‘She didn’t say?’
‘I haven’t seen her.’
‘Fuck,’ I say, looking up at the rain and knowing I just spent my last bit of money on the taxi. ‘Fuck.’ I look at her. ‘I don’t have any money.’
‘Wait a minute,’ she says. ‘I’ll drive you.’
I’m out of the car as soon as it stops, running straight to the bookshop, dripping water all over the floor. I can’t see Rachel; I’m calling out her name as I search for Never Let Me Go. Nothing gets removed from the Library, so it must be here. ‘Rachel!’ I yell again, as I pull out the book, and flick through it to find the thin sheet of paper with Rachel’s handwriting on it.
12 December 2012
Dear Henry
I’m leaving this letter on the same page as ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ because you love the poem and I love you. I know you’re out with Amy, but fuck it – she doesn’t love you, Henry. She loves herself, quite a bit in fact. I love that you read. I love that you love second-hand books. I love pretty much everything about you, and I’ve known you for ten years, so that’s saying something. I leave tomorrow. Please call me when you get this, no matter how late.
Rachel
I have this feeling as I hold it that even though the bookshop is sold, all is not lost. We lose things, but sometimes we get them back. Life doesn’t always happen in the order that we want. ‘Rachel!’ I yell again.
‘You called?’ she says, and I turn around and she’s there. ‘You’re here.’
‘I was here all along,’ she says. ‘I spoke to George, and then I was sitting in the reading garden. Everyone’s out there – having a drink to say goodbye to the shop.’
‘I love you,’ I say.
‘You kissed Amy,’ she says.
‘But I love you, and before you say it words do matter. They’re not pointless. If they were pointless then they couldn’t start revolutions and they wouldn’t change history and they wouldn’t be the things that you think about every night before you go to sleep. If they were just words we wouldn’t listen to songs, we wouldn’t beg to be read to when we’re kids. If they were just words, then they’d have no meaning and stories wouldn’t have been around since before humans could write. We wouldn’t have learnt to write. If they were just words then people wouldn’t fall in love because of them, feel bad because of them, ache because of them, stop aching because of them, have sex, quite a lot of the time, because of them. If they were just words, Frederick would not search desperately for Derek Walcott.’ I take a breath, and when she doesn’t say anything, I keep going.
‘I might have kissed Amy, but I’m telling you now, I love you. And you do love me,’ I say, waving the letter. ‘This has your signature on it. A person might call it a contract.’
‘There’s a date on it, though. I don’t think you can hold me to a contract I signed three years ago in a state of sugar madness,’ she says.
‘I don’t think you can date a letter like this. A love letter, by definition, should be timeless or what’s the point? I love you, but only for that moment and then my love expires? What’s the universe’s problem with forever? It lets the geese get away with it.’
‘The geese?’ Rachel asks.
‘They mate forever.’
‘Well, that’s actually not strictly true,’ she says, and then she interrupts herself, takes hold of my t-shirt by the collar, and pulls me close.
‘That was a very nice speech,’ she says.
‘I got a bit carried away.’
‘I liked it.’
‘You are my best friend. You are the best person I know. You are spectacular, Rachel Sweetie. I love you,’ I say again, and then I kiss her.
Later, much later, at a time that is unknown to me at this point, I will unbutton Rachel slowly. I will kiss her collarbone, and think of watermelon in summer, explored down to the rind. I will hope, and imagine, that I can see our lives from above the universe, and we are spread out together, all along the fixed points of our life.
But at this moment, it is a kiss. It’s a kiss that continues while we put the Prufrock and her letter back in the Library. It is a kiss that continues while I lead her up the stairs for some privacy. It is a kiss that continues through the years.
But at this moment, it is just the start.
Later, in bed, she leans over to check her voicemail.
‘I left some messages,’ I say.
‘So it seems,’ she says.
‘I felt it important you understood the situation.’
‘I think I do.’
‘So we can be together? You’ll be with me?’ I ask.
‘Okay,’ she says.
‘Okay?’
‘Okay,’ she says, and it’s that easy. I don’t have to beg, I don’t have to convince her I’m worth it. It’s just okay, and our future starts.
She asks me if I gave Frederick the Walcott we found today. I haven’t yet, so we go downstairs where everyone is still in the garden, drinking champagne and saying goodbye. Frank is there too, holding a crow bar, and the door between our garden and his shop has been prised open. Better late than never, I guess.
I don’t know how Mum came to be here now. Later, I will find that she came to the shop to get the Dickens. As guilty as me, as sad as me, despite still thinking that selling was the right thing to do.