To know a boy cares like that gives me faith in mankind.
On an unrelated note, I called it! I knew Lord Welby would give an ultimatum. Please tell me Elias goes after Josephine. He doesn’t play the martyr and sacrifice his happiness for money, right? I mean, no one wants to live in poverty, but isn’t love more important? I did research. In Regency times, a couple needed an income of only two hundred pounds per year to live well.
Mr. Darling could hire Elias to manage his assets.
Fine, I’ll stop my commentary and finish reading the book. If it ends with an epilogue of Elias reuniting with Josephine after twenty years only to find she’s married, she named her son after him, or something trite like that, I will throw a royal fit. You said the novel’s ending will help make sense of my situation. I am hoping for a romantic gesture, a dazzling instrumental soundtrack, and a kiss that turns my heart to putty.
In his letters, Elias invited Lorelai to prolong her stay at Cadwallader. He seemed tempted to propose, which makes zero sense to me because he didn’t love her.
Yikes, I sound jealous.
All this will come to an end soon. I have two more letters, one chapter, and an epilogue to read. After your visit, I leave Atteberry and start classes at uni. How will I manage to say good-bye to everyone? More so, how will I muster the courage to bid farewell to Elias?
I need a miracle now.
Josie
P.S. Say a prayer for me. I plan to phone Mum next week.
From: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Sent: Sunday, November 7, 1:46 PM
To: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: I Told Oliver
Gotta keep this email short, Josie. I’m commuting to the Upper West Side and need to change trains at the next stop. Lots of creeps in my subway car. One guy has a ferret in his hoodie pocket, and it keeps staring at me. A woman is leaning against the doors. Low-key afraid the panels will slide apart and suck her onto the tracks. (Sorry for the violent mental image.)
For the record, I love Oliver. He sounds perfect for you. Like, if a Build-A-Boyfriend store existed, I would custom-make you an Oliver clone. I know you love Elias, but I’m worried he won’t appear in your house and you’ll be heartbroken.
I’m worried you will spend your entire life waiting for someone who can’t show up.
Over the past couple weeks, I’ve thought a lot about love and boys—and other mushy stuff that makes me feel like a middle-school girl at church camp. The breakup put me in a contemplative mood, so much so I’m acing my philosophy class.
When people go through dark times, they look for crutches to support them. They want to keep themselves from falling apart, so they try to compartmentalize pain or replace it with distractions. Maybe it sounds dumb, but after we stopped talking and your dad passed, I thought if I changed myself, the grief wouldn’t hurt as bad. I found new friends and pretended like your silence didn’t bother me. Still, at the end of the day, I was the same broken person with the same grief, just without the people who really cared about me.
You seem like yourself again. You have a job, friends, even an adoptive family. I mean, who would’ve thought so much pain could result in good?
I believe Elias wrote about you. (He needed you as much as you needed him.) But there comes a point in all our lives where we must choose how we’re going to move forward, whether to long for what we don’t have—to lean on our crutches—or embrace what’s already around us.
There comes a point where we must close the book.
Next stop is approaching, so I better conclude this longer-than-expected message. I guess my point is . . . I think you already have what you’re looking for, and I want you to see it.
You could spend your whole life searching for love with your eyes closed.
Faith
(Sent from iPhone)
From: Josie De Clare <[email protected]>
Sent: Monday, November 15, 5:09 PM
To: Faith Moretti <[email protected]>
Subject: Mum Says Hi
Faith, I rang Mum earlier today. She answered the phone, which surprised me. I usually leave several voicemails before she gets around to returning my calls. We talked about Dad and the divorce. We fought because I mentioned her lack of parenting. Then she said, “I love you” and “Let’s talk again soon,” and we hung up. The conversation didn’t change much, but I’m glad it happened. I feel this sense of relief, like a weight was lifted off my shoulders.
Oliver and I ate dinner at the pub last week. We seem back to normal except for the occasional Elias question. I’m chuffed that you fancy him, and you’re right—he is perfect for me. Perhaps if I’d met him years ago, I would’ve had an open heart.
You’re wrong about Elias, though. Maybe he started as my crutch, but he’s more than that now. I love him. I can’t stop loving him. Do you really want me to shut the book and move on as if all this didn’t matter? I realize we can’t love everyone the same because no two loves are the same. And I know we can love somebody and not end up with them. It’s just . . . I feel like if I let go of Elias even a little, I’m admitting that I’ll never meet him.
Holding on makes the impossible seem necessary, like God will have to
