Pen Pal

Four months ago

As I sit at the kitchen table staring at my wedding ring in the palm of my hand, I sift through all the memories of my marriage to Michael, both good and bad, until I realize that the reason I haven’t taken off this ring before now is very simple.

I’ve been honoring the dead.

My dead child.

My dead marriage.

My dead hopes for the future that included them both.

All the things I once cherished are gone. Now, the only way I can think of to move on from the past is to do what humans do when we mourn that which is no longer living.

Hold a funeral.

I go upstairs to the master bedroom and find an empty shoebox in the closet. In it, I put our marriage license, my wedding ring, and the black-and-white sonogram of the baby from my first ultrasound appointment, along with a few other mementos.

Then I go out to the backyard with a spade I took from the shed and dig a hole beside the vine-covered pergola I told Michael I was pregnant under.

When the hole is deep enough, I set the shoebox in. Then I cover it with dirt, every so often wiping the tears from my eyes with the back of one hand.

My marriage has been over for a while now, but it still hurts. I know it always will.

Pain is the cost of love. And the deeper your love goes, so too goes the pain. You can never have one without the other.

I sit back on my heels, my throat choked with emotion. To the small mound of disturbed earth in front of me, I say, “I loved you both with all my heart. I hope you can forgive me for all the ways I failed you.”

I think for a minute, but there’s nothing more to say. So I make the sign of the cross over my chest and go back into the house to change.

If my past is dead and buried, my future still awaits.

It takes him a while to open the door after I knock. It’s late, and he’s not expecting me. I stand on the step with my heart pounding outside my chest and all my nerves on fire with longing until I hear his footsteps approach. The doorknob turns, then there he is.

Though it’s been a few weeks and our last meeting at the Harbor House restaurant didn’t end well, Aidan looks at me as he always does, like I’m the first sunrise he’s ever seen in his entire life.

My voice cracks when I say, “You told me to call you when I got clarity. I thought I’d knock instead.”

He glances down at my bare ring finger. “Thank fuck,” he says faintly, exhaling. “I haven’t been able to breathe without you, bunny.”

He grabs me in a bear hug and squeezes me so tight, I can’t breathe either.

Then we’re kissing. Hot, desperate kisses as he drags me through the door and inside his apartment. He kicks the door shut behind us and hugs me again, pressing his face against my neck.

He holds me, his arms trembling, and I’m thankful for everything that brought me to this moment, because I’ve never found anything finer than this.

I whisper against his ear, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Giving me the space I needed, even though I didn’t want it. But if you try giving me any more of it, I’ll kick your ass.”

His laugh is low and breathless. He pulls away and gazes down at me with shining eyes.

“How about if I give you something else you need?”

I lift my brows and say coyly, “Depends on what it is.”

His grin turns wolfish, and his voice turns dark. “Oh, I think you know what it is, little rabbit.”

He bends down, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder, then carries me down the hallway to his bedroom, laughing as I feebly pummel my fists on his muscular butt. He kneels on the mattress and takes us down to the bed.

I flinch and wince. “Ow.”

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s something under my back.”

Aidan lifts himself up to allow me to roll to the side. From underneath me, he pulls out a book.

“Sorry. I was reading.”

He tosses the book aside and kisses me again, but I’m too curious to let this go that easily. “What were you reading?”

“The Divine Comedy.”

He tries to take my mouth, but can’t as I’m still talking. “What’s The Divine Comedy? That sounds interesting.”

Pausing to glower down at me in disapproval, he says drily, “We’re having a book club meeting now?”

I smile and toy with a lock of his dark hair. “We have all the time in the world to do the other stuff, Mr. Lion. Besides, I’m curious about your taste in literature.”

“Apparently, my taste in literature is as odd as my taste in women. We haven’t seen each other in weeks, you’re in my bed, and you’re stalling me getting inside you. What’s wrong with this picture?”

I give him a peck on the lips, then reach over and pick up the book he tossed aside. It’s a black hardback, missing the dust jacket. The title and author name are embossed in gold on the spine.

The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri.

I say, “That sounds like a made-up name.”

Aidan scoffs. “He’s only the greatest poet ever.”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of him?”

“Maybe you’re not as smart as you think.”

I make a sour face. He grins.

When I ask, “So what’s this Divine Comedy about?” he sighs and rolls off me, settling on his back.

“It’s an epic poem about one man’s journey through hell.”

I laugh. “Sounds like the perfect light reading before bed.”

He gazes at me with smiling eyes, though his face is attempting to look stern. He wants me to think he’s disappointed that I’m not naked yet, but I know he’s happy just to have me here.

That makes two of us.

I lift up onto an elbow and rest the book on his stomach. “So tell me the story. How does it go? Why is it called a comedy if it’s about hell? And why does the author’s last name have so many Is in it? It’s fake, right?”

Trying to stifle a laugh, he reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. “I never realized how strange you are before now.”

I lightly thump him on the chest with my knuckles. “Like you’re so normal. Tell me.”

With an exaggerated sigh, he pulls me down, sliding an arm under my neck and tucking me against his side. I snuggle there, closing my eyes and breathing in his warm scent of cedar, musk, and wood smoke.

Happiness shimmers inside me, as light and airy as soap bubbles.

“Dante was an Italian poet and scholar who was born in the thirteenth century.”

“No wonder I’ve never heard of him!”

Ignoring that, Aidan continues. “The story is about his soul’s allegorical journey through the three realms of the dead: hell, purgatory, and heaven. He’s accompanied by three spirit guides along the way who help him understand what’s happening. At the end, he enters heaven, gains the knowledge of what God truly is, and achieves eternal salvation.”

After a moment, I say, “And you’re reading it in bed on a Saturday night?”

“It’s considered one of the world’s greatest works of literature.”

“Please refer to my previous question.”

Chuckling, he kisses my forehead. “Not all of us had fancy university educations. I’ve made an ongoing effort to try to make up for lost time.”

I open my eyes and look at him. He gazes back at me with a soft smile. I know he’s talking about the time he spent in prison for what he did to his father, but we haven’t really discussed that yet, so I’m hesitant to ask for details. Like, for example, how long he was there.

Gently stroking my hair, he murmurs, “Seven years.”

Damn. The man can always read my mind.

I whisper, “Was it awful?”

He nods.

My throat closes, but I manage to say, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s in the past. This is what matters now.”

He gives me a squeeze and a smile so tender, it could break my heart in two. Holding back tears, I close my eyes and press my cheek against his chest.

Sensing I’m on the verge of getting overly emotional, he has mercy on me and changes the subject.

“What really blows my mind about Dante—other than his work—is that his name is an anagram for mine.”

“Anagram means what? Like it sounds similar?”

After a pause, he says, “You didn’t really go to college, did you?”

I thump him on the chest again. He chuckles and says, “An anagram is a word formed using all the letters of another word. Like ‘iceman’ and ‘cinema.’ You mix up all the letters and they spell something else.”

I think about it for a moment. “Okay, that’s freaky.”

“What’s freaky about it?”

“Your name and some famous thirteenth-century Italian dude’s names are the same.”

“They’re not at all the same.”

“Yes, they are, if you mix up all the letters!”

He dissolves into laughter. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“Glad I amuse you, Fight Club.”

He takes the book off his stomach and sets it aside on the bed, then rolls on top of me, propping himself up on his forearms. Cradling my head in his hands and gazing down into my eyes, he murmurs, “But already my desire and my will were being turned like a wheel, all at one speed, by the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.”

When he doesn’t add more and only lies there staring at me with intensity, I say, “Um…okay?”

He drops his forehead to my shoulder and laughs again, harder this time, his whole body shaking with it.

I grumble, “I fail to understand what’s so hilarious here.”

“It’s the last line in the final canto of the poem, where Dante ascends to heaven and is engulfed in the divine light and love of God. It’s probably the most famous line of poetry in history.”

“Pfft. No, the most famous line of poetry in history is ‘I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.’ That’s Dr. Seuss, in case your reading hasn’t progressed that far.”

He lifts his head and gazes at me, his eyes full of adoration and his grin blinding.

Smiling back at him, I say, “So that’s what heaven is, huh? Turning wheels and spinning stars?”

“It was to Dante, anyway.”

“What do you think heaven is?”

His smile fades. His energy slowly changes from light to dark, as does his gaze. Looking deep into my eyes, he says softly, “You.”

That’s the moment I finally let go of my past and my fears and fall—jump—rush headlong—in love with him.

I wrap my arms around his neck and put it all into a kiss.

Because he’s Aidan, he gives it back to me a thousandfold.

From that night on, we’re inseparable. We spend every waking and sleeping moment together. The next few months are what dreams are made of, a fairy tale come true.

Then New Year’s Eve arrives.

And with it, the end.