Twice Shy, Sarah Hogle [100 books to read in a lifetime .txt] 📗

his sketchbook for a blank sheet and stumble upon a cartoon of two people in an old-fashioned elevator. The man is standing over the woman, body curving almost protectively, but he is smaller than I know him to be in real life. His profile is angled, hiding most of his front. The focal point is clearly the woman, gazing up at him, the only one privy to his beautiful face. He’s drawn a thought bubble over his head connected by three white puffs, and inside it, an explosion of hearts.

I’m so absorbed in the illustrated Wesley and Maybell that I don’t immediately tune in to the This is your captain speaking. I don’t start really paying attention until it becomes clear that we’re about to take off. Right now.

I’ve buckled myself in but unbuckle to get up. The flight attendant points at the lit seat belts on sign, and I say, “I’ve got to go get my—” I’ve never thought about him in these terms before, but: “Boyfriend. He’s in the bathroom.”

The flight attendant frowns and bustles past. Opens the door. “He’s not in here.”

“Then where—?” I break into a cold sweat, but she’s hailed by someone who needs help, so I’m on my own. “Wesley?”

The plane isn’t that big. If he were here, he’d be able to hear me. If he heard me, he would respond. Which means Wesley is not here.

I need to get up. I need to find him.

But lucidity has fled, my legs have locked up, and I’m lost. How can I go find my Wesley when my legs won’t work and I can’t think straight? Where did I go wrong? I have to fix this. I have to move.

Except I can’t, because the plane already is.

Chapter 21

I LAND IN CHICAGO AT 1:36 p.m. Alone.

I don’t have the faintest memory of what I did on the plane. I don’t think I opened my bag to utilize any of the prepared activities. If I stared out the window the whole time, I don’t remember it. The next thing I know I’m in a vast, busy terminal standing outside of a duty-free store. Which is not where I need to be.

I go through the motions of finding my gate, sidetracked by every man of tall proportion. I know that Wesley isn’t here, but I can’t help trying to find him, anyway.

I wonder, as I’m boarding another plane without him, if he’s still in the airport in Knoxville or if he’s at home right now. I hope his stomach has calmed down, and that he feels better. I don’t stop to ask myself why I’m still here until I’m already in my next seat. I should have booked a flight home. What’s the point of going to Scotland now? This is Wesley’s dream, not mine. I’m just supposed to be along for the ride.

When I turn my phone back on, a new text message pops up and relief surges over me until I see that the message isn’t from Wesley. It’s from my mother.

Thinking about you! Come visit soon.

I stare blankly at the screen. This is ordinarily the part where I respond with Thinking about you, too! Yes, we need to make some plans.

And then we never make plans.

I’ve spent a long time feeling like I torpedoed my mom’s dreams, her future, by existing. But if I’ve learned anything from living with Violet Hannobar’s ghost, it is that life is short, and the single most important thing I will ever do on this earth is showing the people I love that I love them.

You’re invited to come to my house this summer. Second week of August. Please know that you always have a safe place to stay if you need one.

After sending the text, I pull a brown paper envelope out of my bag and lay it across my lap. My intention was to open it together with Wesley, but he’s not here and I desperately need to busy myself with something, anything, to avoid dwelling on what he may be thinking about right now.

The fifth treasure.

I slit the envelope open, a sheet of familiar lilac stationery tipping out.

To my Mighty & Majestic Violet, Most Wonderful Wife, Everlasting Star, 1989 Blount County Fair Blue Ribbon Winner of Best Rhubarb Pie,

And so you’ve reached the end of another treasure hunt! I don’t know how long it’s taken you to get here, or how many hunts you’ve completed so far. There are nine other maps hidden within the house and grounds. I hope you draw them out for years, and that each treasure makes you smile and remember me.

I love you so very much. You are indomitable. An inspiration. I’ll be watching and cheering you on from beyond.

Yours,

V

I lay the paper back down. I fold it in half, tears welling in my eyes, but then I see—

There’s more. Different handwriting scrawls across the back of the paper.

I love you and I miss you so much, you cannot imagine. I’ll wait to go on my next adventure until you and I can be together again.

Violet knew where the treasure was.

She’d found them after all.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

I HAVE A LOT of time to think while I cross the Atlantic. I fall asleep, dreaming of treasure and mythical creatures, a helping hand reaching out to me in a dark, moonlit wood. A hand-painted sign with my name on it and a tinfoil star. Anxious brown eyes. Blue ones in colored pencil.

When I gather our bags at Heathrow in London, it is half past four in the morning. But in Tennessee, it’s ten thirty at night. My flight to Inverness isn’t for another three hours. I am so exhausted that I should find a chair and pass out.

He has not texted, has not called. But he answers on the first ring.

He waits for me to speak first. And what I say, after dwelling for so long on what I would say, is: “Are