Your Perfect Year(117)

And at 5:34 precisely, Jonathan bent down to Hannah, kissed her on the lips, and whispered in her ear, “I love you.”

Hannah—Sunday, September 23

He had done it. Jonathan had kissed her. And she had returned his kiss. Very briefly, but nevertheless.

Hannah had been sitting in her apartment for hours now, looking through the two boxes of Simon’s things that she had brought up from the basement on a nostalgic impulse. She was at a loss. Mixed up. Sad. Happy. She felt like laughing and crying at the same time.

Jonathan’s kiss had been wonderful, and his declaration of love had made her weak in the knees.

A mere two seconds later she’d been overcome with such strong scruples that she had drawn away from him. Had told him she wasn’t ready for that—it was too soon and she had to get home. She had dashed off and hailed a cab for herself, leaving Jonathan standing there in the fish market crowds. She wasn’t even sure he’d understood her garbled words. But she couldn’t have done anything else; her thoughts and her heart were so muddled that it had felt like self-preservation to get home as soon as possible.

Not that she was any less confused here at home than she had been at half past five that morning. On the contrary. She trawled through her feelings and came to no conclusion.

Jonathan had told her he loved her. Did she love him back? No. That is, she couldn’t say. Love. It was such a big, powerful feeling. It had to be given time to grow. It required trust, which didn’t materialize in just a few weeks. But there was no question that she had feelings for Jonathan. She liked him. Very much, even. She respected his seriousness, and the way he got his teeth into something. His unexpected humor, which could be as smart as it was sympathetic. And although it wasn’t the most important thing, she hadn’t failed to notice how other women looked at him; she had to admit to herself that she was attracted by his appearance. And maybe, just maybe, this “liking” and “attraction” could develop into love.

But only if she allowed it to. If she let herself get involved with him. Could she? Did she want to? Should she? So soon?

She opened one of the boxes. The photo of her and Simon lay on top. Hannah had packed it into the box because she couldn’t bear to look at it. Now she gazed at it for a long time. At Simon, who had once been the man in her life, and herself.

“What should I do?” she asked softly, running her finger gently over Simon’s face. “Can you tell me?”

The photo remained silent, of course.

Hannah thought of the diary she had put together for Simon, in which she had tried to advise him how to overcome his illness and enjoy the year ahead. After all the reproaches with which she had beaten herself up, all the “you can do it” delusions with which she had tortured herself after Simon’s death, she had finally made her peace with the “fateful” gift to her boyfriend.

Because it was absurd to even begin to think that he had taken his life just because of that. And because everything she had written in the diary was exactly what she’d believed, and still did: that every day, every individual second of someone’s life, was too precious to waste, to smother in care and worry. Life was for living, regardless of how long you had left. For ultimately, no one knew when their last moment would arrive, whether or not they were ill. That was why it was only now, only today that counted. Yesterday didn’t matter, didn’t count, and no one could change tomorrow.

Even if Simon hadn’t had any use for her gift, her boyfriend had “bequeathed” it to Jonathan. Whether intentionally or by accident, for whatever reason, Simon had picked Jonathan’s bicycle on which to hang the bag containing the Filofax. And last night, Jonathan had assured her that the diary had done for him exactly what she had intended: it had pushed him into the midst of life, the here and now. His boozy remark had been superfluous—she had eyes in her head. The joy, the sense of release that Jonathan radiated as soon as the talk turned to the Filofax, said more than the best-chosen words.

So, was everything that had happened since New Year’s Eve meant to be? Should it have happened exactly as it had? Must it happen like it had? And did that mean it was right for her to give herself and Jonathan a chance? For her to follow her own advice and stop giving a damn about yesterday?

With a sigh she took from the box one of the binders containing samples of Simon’s work. She leafed through the articles as though she’d find answers to all her questions in them, as though there was a secret message for her between the lines. She turned over page after page, sifting through Simon’s life’s work. She could remember one or two of the stories, as her boyfriend had sometimes been so excited by his work.

Except for his most important work, Hannah’s Laugh. He had kept that from her.

Had the time come to really let go? Should she simply throw the boxes away? Put the binder in the recycling, throw away the few things of Simon’s that she’d kept? Really free herself and start her life over again? She reached the last few pages in the binder. Right at the back, Simon had stashed his important documents. His diploma. His master’s degree. A confirmation of work experience. His certificate of completion of his vocational training. All placed neatly in plastic sleeves. A whole life. A whole damnably short life.

Hannah stopped abruptly at one of the last pages: a letter from a publisher.

Dear Herr Klamm, it said. Thank you for sending your manuscript, Hannah’s Laugh, to us. Unfortunately, the novel isn’t suitable for our list. We are sorry that we can’t give you any more positive news . . .