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Laughter mingles with tears. Jakob’s references to old pop songs, TV shows, movies, and the news place me in those spaces in my memory. I remember exactly what I was doing when each of those letters would have arrived. In 2008, I was starting a new school in Birmingham. When he wrote about rugby, I was angling to take more advanced maths courses. And my father? He was spending all our money on get-rich-quick schemes and dating one horrible shrew after another, largely ignoring me.
I realize as I read these old letters that they are not just a connection to my old address—the one to which my father whisked me off to escape his creditors. Jakob’s messages are a bridge to my own history, a reminder of all the things that shaped me, both joyful and painful.
The second most recent letter, which he sent over a year ago, tells me all about his new place in the capital city, where he shares rent on a house in the artist district with two women.
I’m not prepared for the wash of jealousy in me.
The feeling is utter silliness; I have no claim on Jakob. And yet, who are these women? Are they pretty? Does he sleep with them? Is there a subtext here I’m not getting?
Not everything is about sex, I remind myself.
It is when you’re 29 and ready to turn in your V card, says my monkey mind.
Before we were separated, Jakob and I made a silly marriage pact that if we were still friends and single at age 30, we’d get married. We were very different children—he was artistic and forgetful. I was good at maths and lists and organizing. But he understood me, and I understood him. We had a mental connection that just made sense. We would sneak out of our rooms and spend all night talking and stargazing in the back gardens.
I suppose that silly childhood marriage pact has made me into a bit of a dreamer, always wondering whatever happened to him. Maybe that’s why I’m still single and hopelessly inexperienced with men.
We were 14 years old when my father moved me to England. Jakob grew up and busied himself with sports. With as brawny and tall as he was, that’s no surprise. I used to wonder how he did in school; I asked him as much in my first few letters—before I gave up.
Guilt floods me, and I mentally kick myself for quitting on him.
At this time last year, I was being promoted from assistant manager to manager of the market. If I’d still been corresponding with Jakob, I might’ve sent him the little newspaper clipping about my promotion. But now that I think of it, it doesn’t sound half as glamorous as him setting up his own studio in the arts district.
Don’t sell yourself short, Jo. You helped that poor stranded tourist a while ago when her ride didn’t show up. You saved her ice cream from melting, and you totally looked the other way when she borrowed one of the village bikes without pre-paying. You are a wild one, Josephine.
The final letter is postmarked less than a month ago.
But why go an entire year without contact, I wonder. And how did this letter just so happen to find its way to its companion letters?
Tenderly, I open the most recent missive, and read.
This one is a confession.
My eyes widen, and my heart races. I blink in disbelief, my mind struggling to process the weight of his revelation.
I re-read it a second and third time to make sure I’m not mistaken and to be sure he’s not making this story up.
No, this is the truth. I’m sure of it.
“No one else knows this but I have to tell someone. Even though I haven’t heard from you in forever, I still feel as if these letters are reaching you—that you’re still as trustworthy as ever. I just need to get it out.
I’m hoping that by telling you this truth, that I’ll know what to do next. Even if you don’t write me back, maybe thinking about what you would do will help clear my head. And here it is: I am the mystery man who caught Princess Flora when she fell on the Prince’s birthday.”
Is this real? He must be joking. But when I read on, I know Jakob is telling the truth.
“I hope this does not feel like a burden but I have to tell someone. I know no one who is as sensible and as kind as you, Josephine. I know of no one else who could be as good of a friend right now as you. On the off chance this letter reaches you, I’d very much like to see you.”
Sitting here in my comfortable living room, the evening breeze sweeping through the windows, I am a tempest of emotions. I’m floored that Jakob has confessed this to me.
Shocked, melancholy, and intensely curious only scratches the surface of what I’m feeling right now.
Closing my eyes, I imagine what Jakob looks like today.
When I open my eyes again, I see that he’s written his phone number on the bottom of the letter.
My breath catches.
Tomorrow is Friday—my day off. And so, not in danger of a hangover affecting my day, I pour another glass of wine and reach for my phone.
