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Evie: Send pictures please.
Amelia: K.
I look at the guys sitting around the pool. Dylan’s in the shallow end tossing tennis balls, the dogs paddling to fetch them. His Dad’s leaning back in his chair sipping from a longneck beer and talking about how church needs to stay off the political bandwagon and stick with Jesus’s original message about ministering to people. Patrick’s sitting next to Pastor McAlister hanging on his every word.
The photos arrive thirty seconds later.
Dear Evelyn,
I hope you got my first letter. Not everyone checks their mailbox anymore.
I’ve thought about this for a while now. I’ve run it past a few people. Smart, educated people. They say it’s healthy to get things out in the open. Properly communicated feelings do not percolate or fester. They do not become a problem. Even though I’ve decided to share with you how I feel, I have so many feelings that I don’t know where to begin. So, I’ll start with the obvious.
Affection.
You’re easy to like, Evelyn. I love your smile. I’ve always loved your smile. Remember when your softball team won that game against the Southside Tigers a month ago? There was a photo on Instagram of your team celebrating. In one photo your head was tilted to the side and I spied a few freckles across the bridge of your nose, spreading onto the apples of your cheeks.
That picture’s so sweet.
You weren’t wearing any makeup. You looked so innocent. You could be a thirteen-year-old girl.
That’s all for now, really. Hope everything’s okay by you.
By the way, I haven’t seen you in over a week. Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on your place. I don’t want anyone messing with my favorite person.
Best,
Your Fan
A shiver runs up my spine. I text Amelia.
Evie: You took someone with you to my place – right?
Amelia: No.
Evie: R U still there?
Amelia: Yes.
Evie: Get out.
Evie: Get out now.
***
16
Magical Thinking
MAGICAL THINKING
The cottage is private, at the end of the property just a few yards from the lake, which is tranquil at night. Dylan’s sitting quiet in the corner, his eyes closed. He’s finally meditating and I’m not going to interrupt and tell him about creepy Fan. I read the letter three times and each pass it feels a little less weird. It’s probably nothing.
His eyes blink open and for a change he looks relaxed. “How do you feel?” I ask.
“Good. Calm, centered. I can think more clearly.”
“Excellent,” I say.
