Don't Speak (A Modern Fairytale, #5)(74)

She is my shining light and the joy of my life, and no matter what happened with the Governor’s Son, I will always be grateful to you, my Erik, for giving her to me.

After I had her, I had some very tough days, missing my father and sisters, and, of course, you. At one point, I had a notion of driving to Duke and presenting Ava Grace to the Governor’s Son. But Judith showed me some pictures of him on Google. She showed me a picture of him holding hands with Vanessa Osborn at a Duke formal, and another of him at his sister’s graduation from high school in June.

Most painful of all, she showed me a picture of the Governor’s Son kissing Vanessa Osborn at a party in Raleigh the same July I was falling in love with you, Erik. It was crushing, of course. It was evidence of everything the Governor’s Wife had told me that terrible Thanksgiving: he’d been with Van and me at the same time. And in the end, he’d chosen Van.

After that, I put away foolish notions of driving to Duke or ever reaching out to the Governor’s Son. I reminded myself that I never knew him. And I forced myself to move on for Ava’s sake.

My Christmas cards to my father and Issy were returned to sender unopened this year, just as they were last year, but Kyrstin’s wasn’t returned. I hope and pray that someday my father and sisters will forgive me and find space for me and my daughter in their lives again.

I feel like I need to say that I know you’re not real, Erik. I know you never existed. I still dream of you all the time, but my memories aren’t as sharp as they were a year ago. And that helps. But only a little. Sometimes I feel like I will grieve the loss of you for the rest of my life, Erik. I still long for you—for the man I loved so much—in a constant, aching way, wishing you could see and know our daughter. Her soft coos of pleasure. The way she hums when I feed her smashed yams. How much she loves the pool at the college. The sweet smell of her head when she falls asleep in my arms.

Judith has asked me to set the table, and since Ava is finally napping, I guess I should. But I wanted to write my annual letter to you before the day got away.

I miss you.

I miss you.

Merry Christmas, my Erik.

Laire

***

The Third Christmas

Dear Erik,

I thought about not writing this year, about tearing up this stupid journal and throwing it in Judith’s fireplace. I don’t know why I didn’t. There are only a couple dozen pages written, and it’ll take years to fill them all. Maybe I’m keeping it as a record for Ava Grace. Or maybe knowing this journal exists lets me keep you in a box I only open once a year. For whatever reason, the journal survived. And so here I am, exhausted after a very long and exciting Christmas Day, writing to you, my imaginary boyfriend who never actually existed.

Gyah. It’s crazy. I know. I know.

Ava Grace is nineteen months old. Nineteen months. I can’t believe it some days.

She said “Mama” at nine months old and “Nana” and “Unca” (for Patrick) at twelve months, and started walking at fourteen months. She zips around so fast now, we all have to be careful what we leave out because she gets into everything. She’s tall, and her red hair (which has grown in much darker than mine ever was—your genes) curls around her collar. She says “Me want yoos” for orange juice and “Kitty Found,” for Judith’s cat, Flounder. Her favorite book character is Biscuit. Her favorite music is by Laurie Berkner.

Now I’m just rambling.

Oh, here’s something new!

I started college in September, if you can believe it. Yes, I did. I saved up over $3,000 the summer I worked at the Pamlico House, and another $10,000 working at Harris Teeter. Since Judith refuses to take rent or board (stubborn, beloved Judith), I am quite flush and could easily pay my tuition.

I am four months into my first year, and I’m majoring in fashion design and merchandising. Yes, I wanted to go to up North, but Nana is here and Nana babysits for Ava, so here is where I stay. LOL. Patrick gives me a ride to school every day and brings me home in the afternoons. He has been such a good friend to me, taking me out to meet some of his friends, though I am twelve years younger, and certainly he must feel about me as he would a much younger sister. But his eyes are still kind and his hair is still wild, and when he sings Ava Grace to sleep, my heart clenches a little.

Mostly because I miss you.

Mostly because I wish it was you.

Impossible, I know. Imaginary characters can’t sing little girls to sleep.

She points to Patrick sometimes and says, “Dada,” and we’re all quick to say “No, Ava. Unca!” but it makes me realize that she will ask questions someday, and what will I tell her about you?

Maybe I will say that once upon a time, Mama fell in love with a dark-haired prince who lived in a castle on the beach. That’s close to the truth, isn’t it? Certainly I can never, ever tell her about the Governor’s Son. A lump, half sorrow and half hate, still rises up in my throat when I think about him.

A few months ago, when I opened an account for myself, I searched for him on Facebook. Since we aren’t Facebook friends, I couldn’t see much of his page, aside from four or five profile pictures: he was just as beautiful as I remembered, with dark, thick hair and brown eyes. But his face was hard and his eyes were cold. I wondered if he’d changed, or if I had. Were his eyes always that cold and I’d never noticed? Because in my memory they are warm and lively. I don’t know. I guess I never will. But the overwhelming sadness in my heart made me cry for several nights in a row after Ava was asleep, so I promised myself not to look at his Facebook account again for a long, long time.