Postmarked

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

Notes: There are some inconsistencies in this fic compared to the book. I believe in the book it's stated that Conrad writes Belly letters for two years before they finally see each other again on her graduation day. For the purposes of this fic, please temporarily erase that from your mind.

Summary: Conrad finds out that Belly had actually written him back for each letter he'd sent to her in Spain - she'd just never sent them. One year and a half year later, Belly sends him the letters for his birthday, and inadvertently stirs the ghost of past love.

Part 1

Conrad Fisher knows exactly how he affects women.

He sees them at the bar, giving him teasing, half-lidded glances. The brave ones come right up to him and attempt to start a conversation with him halfway through his whiskey. "I'm Belinda," they usually say. Or they're a Stacy. Or Jen. Or Mattie. They are usually pretty and long-limbed and self-assured, a palpable confidence rolling over their toned, sun-kissed California shoulders when they tilt their head and smile at him in a way he knows has lured many men's hearts.

But when he looks at them, all he sees is someone else. Somewhere out there, there is a poor guy pining after this girl at the bar. Belinda. Stacy. Jen. Mattie.

Somewhere out there, existing in this same tragic universe, she is some other guy's Isabel Conklin.

ooo

Conrad doesn't know Agnes is in town until he gets a missed call from her. Agnes is an old friend Conrad met at Brown, and one of the few people he had kept in touch with over the years - texting for updates and the occasional med school grumbles all med school students come to adopt like a second language.

Agnes had stayed on the East Coast. She had expected he would do the same so they could suffer through their residency together, but he'd ended up going to California, instead. Even now, it was still a bit of a sore topic whenever his coast-switching turned up in conversation.

He sees her name on his missed call log after his morning surf. Conrad calls her back from the beach parking lot, watching the seagulls gliding overhead. The sun was just starting to peak out from a thinning veil of gray clouds.

Agnes picks up on the second ring. "Fisher! What are you doing tonight?"

"Probably make some dinner and watch some TV," he replies, zipping down the top half of his suit. "The usual riveting routine. Why?"

"Well, I'm in your part of town, and my date to my brother's wedding tonight just got food poisoning," Agnes explains. "I know you've got a very exciting night of steak-grilling and Netflix-browsing ahead of you, but how would you feel about going to a wedding instead?"

Conrad doesn't see the harm in it, so he says yes. Agnes says she'll pick him up around six.

ooo

The wedding is at the Hotel Del on the island of Coronado, a picturesque beach town separated from downtown San Diego by a long, two-lane blue bridge suspended high above the ocean. Conrad is familiar with Coronado. When he'd first moved to Southern California, Conrad had frequented the beach and the quiet neighborhoods of the small city. In a lot of ways, it reminded him a lot of Cousins. Quiet streets, people riding around on beach cruisers, and no corporate skyscrapers to spoil the view of the beach.

"Christ, look at this place," Agnes says, looking up at the hotel. It's a majestic white building with a sloping, red rooftop, with its rooms extending down along the shoreline of the beach. "I did a little googling last night. Did you know that this place is haunted?"

Conrad turns to look at her. Agnes grins from ear to ear as she slips her arm into Conrad's and they fall in line with the other guests entering the hotel. "I always knew my future sister-in-law had a dark side to her," she whispers to him.

The wedding starts promptly at sunset on a small patch of beach down from the hotel. After the ceremony, they all walk towards the reception area, where a few dozen white tables waited for them with their place cards. After the best man and maid of honor speeches, the sky darkens, and rows of large, white lanterns hanging above them are illuminated. Everyone gasps with delight.

After dinner, Agnes persuades Conrad to have a few dances with her on the dance floor before they both grab their drinks and head out to the beach, away from the other guests. They leave their shoes at the edge of the dance floor and walk out to feel their bare feet on the cool sand. As they move away, the music grows fainter and the sounds of the ocean become louder.

"I gotta say - you look well, Conrad," Agnes says beside him. "But not as well as I hoped you'd be."

Conrad sends her a skeptical look. "Oh?"

"Yeah, you've still got that tortured furrow between your eyebrows," Agnes says, raising her own fingers to her face, pointing above the bridge of her nose. "Which tells me you still haven't told her yet. The Girl."

Conrad chuckles at this, taking a swig of his beer. Good old observant Agnes. It's nice to see some things never change.

"You're lucky you're so good-looking," she continues teasingly. "On a lesser-endowed mortal this same look would give off a faint air of perpetual constipation." She laughs loudly. "I mean, who is this girl? She surely can't be as unattainable as you."

"I'm not so unattainable," Conrad defends.

Agnes snorts, waving his comment away. "Your stubborn track record of being unattainable begs to differ."

Conrad doesn't know what to say to this, so he just takes another long drink.

"So tell me about her," Agnes presses. "I need to know about this girl who's kept the elusive Conrad Fisher chasing after her all these years. Maybe give me her number, too. I'd love to know her secrets." Conrad gives her a dry look. Agnes feigns innocence. "What? Sharing is caring, my friend."

Conrad's fingers fidget with the wrapper around his beer. He sighs. "I'm waiting for the right time, that's all. I messed up, Ag. In a big way. In a way that... messed up a lot of things for a lot of people. Not just for me."

Time heals all wounds, Conrad remembers. He has no other choice but to believe it.

Agnes looks at him intently. Her face is thoughtful and questioning. "What if you keep waiting for the right time, and it never comes?"

Conrad takes another drink. He looks out into the darkness, listening to the soft crash of the waves.

"I just think... we spend so much time waiting, you know?" Agnes continues. "For the right time. For the right person. For the right feeling. We trust that it'll come, eventually. But who makes that promise to us? Who tells us that's the right fairytale to believe?"

When she finally looks up at him, Conrad is grinning at her. "What's so funny, Fisher?"

"Nothing. It's just - that was incredibly profound, Ag." He barely stifles his laughter. Agnes punches him in the arm.

"Unlike you, I am totally capable of having profound thoughts, Conrad."

Conrad just keeps smiling at her. "I know. It's just nice, that's all. It really is good to see you. I mean it."

Aside from his cohort in medical school, Conrad hadn't made very many friends in San Diego. It was good to see a familiar face.

Agnes laughs. She slips her arm back around his. "That's the open bar talking, not you. Let's head back to the wedding before they think we've gone off to do something naughty on the beach."

ooo

After the wedding, Agnes graciously drives him back to his apartment. She slowly rolls to a stop in front of his unit. Conrad unbuckles his seat belt and thanks her for the night.

"Don't thank me," she smiles. "Thank my date for getting food poisoning."

Conrad chuckles and says goodnight, getting out and closing her passenger door behind him. As he's heading up to his front door, Agnes rolls the car window down and calls out to him. "Hey Fisher!"

He turns around. Agnes's elfin face is partially lit by the screen of her phone that she'd mounted on her dashboard as a GPS.

"Promise me you'll finally tell this girl," she says. "It's sad to see you so miserable. I mean, how could a girl say no to Conrad Fisher?"

Conrad offers her a smile and waves goodbye. "Drive safe, Ag."

She points at him and winks. "Stay handsome, Conrad."

Conrad watches Agnes's tail lights until they round the corner and disappear.

ooo

Conrad blinks at his alarm clock. 3:15am.

"Dad? What is it?" With his cell phone to his ear, Conrad sits up in bed. Phone calls that come at this time of night are never a good thing. Especially from his dad.

"It's Jeremiah," his dad says. "He's at the hospital. He's been in an accident."

From the moment Conrad hangs up the call with his dad, he is packed up and in a cab on the way to the airport in twenty minutes.

He thanks his lucky stars when he sees that the line for airport security is short. He breezes through and half-walks/half-runs to Gate 67. He makes it there just as they are boarding passengers and lines up behind groggy travelers with Starbucks to-go cups in their hands.

It's 4am and the sky is still a swatch of darkness, with little pinpricks of stars. He boards the plane and takes his seat towards the back - an aisle seat, since it was a last-minute buy - and he gets up to let a woman and her young son by. They sit next to him, and the woman lets her son look at the lights on the tarmac through the small airplane window.

He closes his eyes as the plane speeds up on the runway. Even though he's flown many times now, he still always clenches his fists on takeoff.

ooo

When he lands at the airport, his father is waiting for him outside at the pick-up curb. Conrad throws his bag in the backseat and hastily gets into the passenger seat.

It's daylight now. The digital clock in his father's Lexus tells him it is almost 1 in the afternoon. The airport roads are crowded and jammed with traffic, car signal tail lights blinking in rows.

"How is he?" Conrad asks.

"He's all right for now. He's finally conscious, which is good. They're still running some tests."

Conrad sighs in relief, but then he clenches his jaw. "He wasn't - was he?" It's a sharp exhale. He's known Jere to do stupid things, especially in the presence of his frat brothers. Ever since his almost-wedding with Belly, there was a time when Jere seemed to be on the verge of spiraling out of control. But he had gotten a job with his dad's firm a few months ago, and since then, he'd seemed to shape up and hunker down for good.

"He wasn't," his dad answers, and Conrad feels the sudden wash of guilt in his throat. His dad glances at him, giving him a comforting look, as if to say, I know, kid. Me too.

"It was the other guy. Blood alcohol level was off the charts. That guy didn't make it. After he hit Jere, he crashed into the median and his car flipped. Doctor told me the guy was in such bad shape, he was DOA."

Conrad nods and tries to swallow down the bad taste in his mouth. He and his dad sit in silence for the rest of the way to the hospital.

ooo

Jeremiah has a broken rib, broken clavicle, fractured tibia, and is suffering from a concussion. The doctor tells Conrad that Jere was lucky his broken rib hadn't perforated his lung – otherwise he'd be in much worse shape.

"How about his MRI?" Conrad asks.

"His MRI looks fine, but we'll be keeping him for a few nights for observation. We'll be monitoring his concussion to see if he gets better or worse." Dr. Myers nods at both Conrad and his dad. "Let me know if you have any other concerns."

There are a few people in the hospital room when he walks in with his father. Laure is there, sitting beside Jere, as well as two other guys that Conrad recognizes from his frat. They give him approving nods.

"Hey Jere," Con says. One of the frat brothers switches seats so that Con can take his seat next to his bed.

Jere meets his eyes only for a second before moving his gaze to the TV. His lip's split and he's got nasty bruising on the side of his face. "Did Dad fly you out? I told him not to."

"He didn't trust the doctor, so he wanted a second opinion."

Jere cracks a smirk. "Nice one."

"How are you feeling?"

"Like crap," Jere sighs. He quickly winces, and one of his frat brothers reminds him not to take any sudden deep breaths. "But Doc says I'm doing well, considering."

A cell phone suddenly rings, making everyone in the room jump. Conrad sees his dad quickly take his phone out of his pocket, glancing at the screen before raising it to his ear. "Sorry, gotta take this," he says to everyone, and steps out of the room.

A few minutes later, Jere's frat brothers get to their feet. "Well, we're going to grab a few things from the house. Take a shower, change clothes, and bring back some homework and snacks. Their vending machine selection's a little too mild for our tastes."

"Jere, we'll bring you your laptop so you can finish catching up on Game of Thrones, all right?" one of them says, and Jere almost laughs. Almost, because it sounds more like a pained wheeze.

"Get some sleep, too. You guys are starting to look as wrecked as I do."

They give Jere a goofy salute. "Aye aye sir. We'll see you in a couple hours." They wave goodbye to Conrad and Laure on their way out.

"When I first got in, the whole house was here," Jere tells him. "But the nurses came and told them I wasn't allowed to have so many people in my room, so they've been coming in shifts. I keep telling them they don't have to, but..." he trails off. Conrad can tell it means a lot to Jere that they came.

Conrad's stomach loudly grumbles.

Jere scrunches up his nose, laughing. He winces again. "Ahh. Dude, was that you?"

Conrad clutches his stomach. It suddenly hits him - that overwhelming feeling of not having eaten much of anything in the past ten hours.

"Guess so," he says.

"The caf's downstairs. Go. I hear the pizza's good. Super greasy, just like the kind we liked from Luigi's."

Laure gets up from her chair, and suddenly she's right beside him. "Come on, Con," Laure says, taking him by the arm. "Let's go get you something to eat."

ooo

When Conrad comes back with Laure from the cafeteria, he pauses at the door. From the window he can see that there's someone new at Jere's bedside, and that she's holding his hand. He watches their two forms from the gaps in between the blinds and his breath catches in his throat when he realizes that it's Belly.

For a second he feels frozen, and fights the urge to retrace his steps back down the hallway to the cafeteria. Of course Belly is here. She loves Jere. She'd almost married him, remember? Before Conrad and gone and fucked everything up.

He can tell they're having a private moment, so he waits a few moments before he knocks and opens the door. He tries not to be hurt at the surprise he sees in Belly's eyes when she sees him.

He also pretends not to notice when Belly slips her hand out from under Jere's.

"Hey, sorry for interrupting," he says. He meets her eyes. "Hey Belly."

"Hey Conrad," she smiles. "When did you fly in?"

"About an hour ago. Just had to get something to eat in the cafeteria. Didn't eat much on the plane." He takes the seat on the other side of Jere's bed. "How are you feelin', man?"

"Sleepy," Jere replies, tiredly. "Where's Dad?"

"He had to run back to work for a few hours, so he asked me to watch over you."

Jere half-smirks, his eyes already closed. "Sounds like he got a bit of Mom, after all."

ooo

It's already dark out when Belly leaves the hospital. Jere had fallen asleep again, so she gently squeezes his hand to say goodbye before getting to her feet.

Conrad stands up, meeting Belly's eyes. "Let me walk you out," he says, and Belly lets him.

They don't say much as they walk through the hospital's hallways. They pass nurses and doctors and families. Conrad is familiar with the sounds and movement of a hospital, but he still marvels at how - when you're in a hospital too long - you can lose all sense of time. In a way, it reminds him of how casinos don't have windows so that gamblers don't realize how much time they've spent at the craps table.

Outside, the night is balmy and calm. The drastic change in temperature makes him shiver.

Conrad keeps in-step with her as they head out to the parking lot. Belly smiles at him. "It's really good to see you, Conrad."

It's the first time he's seen her since the almost-wedding, and her proximity makes him... anxious. Nervous. How long has he thought about seeing her again? Every time he'd written her a letter, all he had thought about was seeing her again.

He shoves his hands into his pockets. It's a preventative measure, he tells himself, so that he won't be tempted to reach out and touch her. "It's good to see you, too. I just wish it were under better circumstances."

She solemnly nods in agreement. "Me too. But, still - I'm sure Jere's glad you came." She tucks some hair behind her ear, looking up at him. "He'd kind of told me... that you guys were sort of okay now."

Conrad thinks about this. Okay. Sort of okay, now. Maybe that was the appropriate phrase. He and Jere were civil, but there was still some iciness, and distance. But at least they were speaking. At least they could stand to be in the same room. Granted, it took six months of silence, but... it was something. After what he'd done, Conrad would take anything.

"We're definitely better than we were, but... I think I've still got a lot of atoning to do." He gives her a rueful grin. Belly forces a small laugh. He can see how white her knuckles are on the strap of her bag.

"I never got to thank you for your letters," she says. "When I was abroad, and then afterwards. They were nice. Nobody really writes letters anymore."

Her voice is soft, but Conrad can sense the hesitation. He can feel how being alone with him still makes her uneasy. "You're welcome."

"Why'd you keep writing?" she asks. Conrad notices that she doesn't meet his eyes. "To me. Even after I didn't respond."

It was true. Belly hadn't responded to a single letter he'd written to her – not during her time in Spain, nor afterwards. At the time he thought she was punishing him – and if so, he understood. So he just kept writing. He wanted to show her he had changed, and that he didn't just give up and disappear anymore. No, not like he used to.

He shrugs. "Because I knew you'd still read them."

Belly looks at him, as if surprised. And then she laughs, nodding her head, because she knows he's right. "Well, Conrad. In case nobody's ever told you - you are a very good letter-writer. I hope you know that."

Conrad focuses his eyes on a flickering streetlamp. What he says next is out of his mouth before he can think to swallow it down. "Not good enough for you to write back, though," he says.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches her wince. He regrets it immediately, even though some part – a small part – is glad he said it.

It takes her a moment, but when she replies, her tone is even. Neutral. Maybe even guardedly so. "Sending letters back to you felt like opening the door to this black hole," she says, quietly. "I didn't trust myself."

At this, Conrad feels guilt and shame wash over him, because he knows. Conrad has always known. The way he'd treated her in the past, and even his explosive confession and plead for her not to marry Jeremiah the night before their wedding... He gets it, Belly's hesitance. He gets why she recoils. He's pulled her, and he's pushed her away, and then pulled her back... He's hurt her too much.

"Fair enough," he says.

"But the thing is, I did write to you. I just never sent them. I kept them in a box. I started writing back to you when you sent me that necklace on my birthday."

Conrad can't look at her. He doesn't trust himself to. He almost wants to laugh. She'd written him back this entire time and she just had never sent them? It seems like such a ridiculously Belly-like thing to do that he mentally kicks himself for never having considered it.

"Do you still have them?" He wonders if he will ever get to read her responses, and feels an ache of longing. It felt like torture before, and it feels like torture now - this need to know what Isabel Conklin is thinking. About his letters. About his life. Most especially, about him.

"Actually, I burned them all," she says. "They made for a delicious batch of s'mores."

Conrad looks at her and she bursts into laughter. His chest untightens. He laughs, too.

When their laughter has died down, she tells him the letters are still in a box.

He pauses for a second, choosing his words carefully. He tries to moisten his dry, chapped lips. "Will I ever get to read them?"

Belly stops, and Conrad realizes they've arrived at her car.

She turns away, walking towards the driver's door, leaving him to gaze at the back of her head. Conrad has a feeling it's so that he can't read her face.

This only makes him want to do it even more.

"Someday," she says.

ooo

When Conrad returns to Jere's hospital room, he's his last and only visitor. One of his nurses pops her head in to let him know that visiting hours would be ending soon. He makes himself comfortable at Jere's bedside, grabbing one of the magazines his frat brothers had grabbed from the waiting room - an old Newsweek. He flips to the first page.

"She gone?"

Conrad looks up to see that Jere's eyes are partially open. His voice is a sleepy murmur.

"Yeah. She's gone for the night," Conrad replies. "She has work in the morning. She said she'd be back tomorrow, though. Laure, too."

They're quiet for a moment. Jere closes his eyes again, and Conrad almost thinks he's gone back to sleep when he says something else.

"Does it still hurt when you see her?"

Conrad studies his brother's face. His eyes were still closed, his expression even and blank. Not angry. Just matter of fact.

"Always."

"Good," Jere says, hoarsely. "Me too."

ooooo

It had been six months after the almost-wedding when Conrad had finally gotten to see Jere in person. For half a year, Jere had rejected all of his calls and visits, forcing Conrad to face something he'd never had to deal with from his brother: utter, deafening silence. A complete freeze-out.

He found him at their mother's grave on her third death anniversary. Conrad had expected other people to be there - Laure, their father, Belly and Steve - but it was early in the morning. The sun hadn't even risen yet. The grass was wet from the overnight dew and the moisture had soaked through the edges of his jeans.

Jere was sitting in a collapsible chair right next to her grave. Conrad expected Jeremiah to pack up and leave right as he saw him approaching in the distance, but as Conrad got closer, he realized that Jeremiah was asleep. Conrad didn't know if he had spent the night there. Conrad didn't even know if that was allowed.

He held the flowers for his mother's grave in his hand, staring at his brother. Jere's hair was longer, but his usually clean-shaven face was covered in two-day stubble. He was in a zipped up hoodie, with a fleece blanket thrown over himself.

Conrad placed his bouquet next to Jere's flowers and squatted down to place his hand on her headstone. "Hey Mom," he said quietly, his eyes still tracing the letters of her name carved into the marble slab. Susannah Rebecca Fisher. Loving wife, mother, and friend.

When Conrad stood back up, Jeremiah was awake. He was staring at him.

"Hey," he said.

"Conrad," he said gruffly.

He motioned to the graves around them. "Did you sleep here?"

"Not all night," Jere said, looking away. "Just a few hours."

Conrad could see how exhausted Jere was. His eyes were red and swollen.

"It's good to see you," Conrad said.

For a long time, Jeremiah said nothing. He looked at everywhere except Conrad. His jaw was clenched and his eyes were hard, glaring at the horizon.

"I came by your frat a few times," Conrad said.

Jeremiah finally looked at him. "I know. But I knew that if I saw you, I'd probably beat the shit out of you. And I didn't know if I'd be able to stop." He closed his eyes, then. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down his throat.

Conrad appreciated Jeremiah's concerns about his safety, regardless of the fact that it would have been at his own hands.

He opened his eyes, glaring at him. "I'm still pissed at you, Con," Jere said. "But I think I'll always be a little bit pissed at you. I've made peace with that. But do you remember that thing Mom used to say to us when we were pissed at each other for some stupid reason?"

Conrad thought hard. He remembered it soon enough, but Jere said it first.

"That being pissed at someone doesn't mean we can't still be decent to them," he continued. "And - I just keep remembering Mom. How sad she used to always get when we fought. The crazy, hilarious schemes she would come up with just to get us to make up. How disappointed in us she'd be, if she was still here, if she saw us like this."

Jere took a breath. He was crying.

"So I'm going to be decent. Not because you deserve it. But because of Mom." Jere quickly wiped his eyes with his sleeve.

That was when Conrad knew Jeremiah Fisher was a far better man than he'd ever be.

oooo

The truth is, Conrad Fisher had gotten the idea to write to Belly from her mother.

It happened when he was on break from med school and had flown in as a surprise for his dad's birthday. His dad was still at the firm, so he decided to pay Laure a visit.

"Conrad! What a pleasant surprise!" she said, pulling him in for a hug. She was dressed in a robe and pajamas. "Come in. We'll have some drinks."

They settled in Laure's kitchen. There, Conrad noticed a letter on her countertop. It had Belly's name written on it and a foreign address underneath. Madrid, Spain.

"Do they not have email in Spain?" he joked.

"You know Belly," Laure said affectionately. She brought out a beer for him from the fridge and poured herself a wine of glass. "She's a bit of an old soul. I thought I'd humor her by sending her a handwritten letter."

Conrad set the letter down and looked up. Laure was watching him with a faint twinkle in her eye that he recognized – always a telltale sign that Laurel Dunn had an idea.

"You should try writing to her, Con."

Conrad snorted. "Sure. What should I say? Dear Belly, I'm sorry I fucked everything up. How's Spain?'"

"Sure, for starters." Laure put down her wineglass, resting her hands on the kitchen counter. Her face was gentle. "But just so you know, nobody blames you for what happened."

"I'm pretty sure some people do – for good reason. Jere's only started talking to me again, and that took a solid six months." Conrad took a generous gulp of beer. "Can't say I blame him. If I was in his shoes..."

If Conrad had been in Jeremiah's shoes, he meant to say, and Jeremiah had stolen his fiancée, Conrad would never forgive him. Or, at least - not for a very, very long time. Certainly not within six months.

"I think you're being too hard on yourself, that's all. The thing is, Con, life is long. You'll have bigger fuck-ups. I guarantee you."

Conrad smiled at her. "Your optimism is pretty blinding, Laure."

Laurel shrugged, taking a sip of wine. "You've got to keep these things in perspective, kiddo. You can only beat yourself up for so long before people will think it's a fetish."

Conrad looked at Laure and for second, they both just stared at each other. Then, suddenly, they both burst into laughter. Conrad laughed so hard until he couldn't breathe and there were tears in his eyes. He didn't actually know if what Laure said was really all that funny, but God, it felt good to laugh.

ooooo

It takes Jeremiah several months to fully heal up from his car accident. Conrad had to return back to California after a few days, but he checked in with him every now and then to see if he was getting better. This just supplemented his calls with his dad, who reported back to him every time Jere had a doctor's appointment to check on his progress.

Jeremiah, in his vow of mutual, brotherly decency, even texted him back.

At three months, Conrad texts him to ask how he's doing.

Practically as good as new, Jere texts back. Doc.

ooo

On Conrad's birthday he receives a package. It's a medium-sized box wrapped in thick, brown craft paper and no return address.

Inside there is a bundle of letters, all in individual envelopes and addressed to him, although unstamped. He unties the twine that holds them together and picks one up, bringing it closer to his face. He smiles.

Dear Conrad,

Steven says I'm a cheap gift-giver whenever I can get away with it. If he knew about what I was about to do, he would never let me live it down. But these letters have been sitting in a box under my bed for a while now. For a long time I debated on whether to send them to you - the original idea, after all, was that I was never going to. I compared it to writing in a diary. It was therapeutic to write to you but never send them - but to still get a letter from you, every month, as if I actually had.

You can choose to read them, or not. You can read one or all or none. But I finally decided that these letters belong to you. I leave it to you to decide their fate.

I hope your birthday is fun and happy and that you spend it laughing with new friends in San Diego.

-Belly

That night, Conrad sits down on his patio with a beer and reads the first letter. It's dated her birthday. The day he'd sent her his first letter.

ooo

In her letters to him, Belly is curious and warm and open. But in others, she is also hurt and annoyed with him and frustrated. Some letters are just half a page long, while others are a few pages long, with her handwriting getting cramped and pinched towards the end. She wrote to him about Spain, about the pigeons in Spain (mutant giant pigeons, she calls them), and the gypsies who liked to put curses on foreigners. She wrote about how much she adored her host family and loved Spanish food. She talked about the architecture and the places she visited, and how she somehow always felt an impulse to weep when she looked at the ceilings of old cathedrals.

I can't tell you how many times I've narrowly escaped getting run over by a moped, she wrote, in one letter. Each time it happens I feel this need to call everyone just to tell them I love them – just in case I'm not so lucky the next time. My Mom, Dad, Taylor, Anika, Jeremiah... and you.

Conrad reads that sentence again. He skims the next paragraph, but she'd moved on to another topic – the street performers that played at the plaza near her host university. He wonders what it means that she had listed him last.

He goes to bed still thinking about it. At one point, he grabs his phone from his side table and starts typing a text to her, until he stops himself. He stares at her name illuminated on his phone screen. He deletes the draft.

ooo

One letter is dated his mother's birthday.

Even now, I feel the impulse to call Susannah to tell her about things. Good things. Bad things. Boring things. Sometimes I think hard and I don't even know if I can remember the sound of her voice anymore, and it makes me sad and angry with myself. It all still feels a dream, you know? Her being gone.

Do you believe in Heaven, Conrad? Do you believe that the people we love still watch over us when they're gone? I don't know if I ever did. My mom never really pushed Steven or I to affiliate ourselves with any kind of religious belief. But when I think about Susannah, and I think about losing the people we love… it's hard not to want to believe in Heaven. That they're in a better place. That they're still up there, watching us. Celebrating with us when we're happy. Being sad with us when we're down.

Maybe it's worth it to believe in Heaven, even if all it does is make the pain of losing someone a little more bearable.

When Conrad reads this letter, he cries.

ooo

When Conrad realizes he is down to her very last letter, he hesitates. He waits a few days just staring at it still sitting in the box. Now that he's finally gotten her voice in his head again, he doesn't know if he's ready for it to end.

One night, he finally picks it up. He grabs a beer and takes the letter outside with him to the patio.

Dear Conrad,

There's another study abroad student here from California - UCLA, to be exact. His name is Jonah. We've spent some time together alone and also as part of our cohort, and we've gotten to know each other pretty well. I've started to feel things I haven't felt in a long time. That warm, fuzzy feeling at the bottom of your stomach - the kind you feel on a winter day when you've just had that first sip of hot chocolate. The thrill in getting to know someone again. The truth is, I didn't know if I would feel that again after Jeremiah. Then again, some time ago, I didn't know if I would ever feel that again after you.

I feel hopeful, Conrad. For the first time this morning, one of my waking thoughts wasn't a pang of self-loathing after what happened between you, Jeremiah, and I. I even sent Jeremiah a postcard earlier this week, and he texted back to say thanks. I know that it's possible we won't ever be back to the way things were, but I think I'm finally beginning to see signs of healing. I just hope you are feeling that, too.

In all of your letters, you haven't written to me yet about whether you've got anyone special in your life. To be honest, I used to brace myself each time I got one of your letters just in case it was the letter you finally decided to reveal to me that you'd fallen in love. Maybe you do, and you're just trying to be considerate. I'll admit the thought has crossed my mind numerous times because I'm sure there are plenty of girls in California who've been unlucky enough to become ensnared by the Fisher charm.

But I hope you are. I hope you're opening your heart up to someone, or at least - the possibility of someone. Because we all deserve someone, Conrad. I know how caring and kind you are. I know how deeply you can love. I think it's a wonderful thing that shouldn't be kept to yourself.

All my love,

Belly

Conrad leans his head back against his chair, closing his eyes. That was it. The last letter in the box. He sets down his beer bottle and digs his face into his hands.

The truth is that there had been no one. His letters had been telling the truth. Sure, he'd had a drunken bar flirtation every now and then, but nothing serious. Not even so much as a date. Because he'd done that before, remember? Tried to move on and distract himself when he knew better? That had all crashed and burned. He had never felt good about himself afterwards, which is why he had sworn off leading anyone else on until he'd finally gotten himself out straightened out.

How fitting, how cruel it was that Belly's last letter to him would be to tell him that she's moved on, and that he should, too.

ooo

Her box of letters sits on his desk for an entire week before he decides to put it away.

He'd reread her last letter to him numerous times, uselessly trying to find hidden clues or read between the lines, but Belly's words in her letter had been too clear and direct for him to misconstrue.

One morning, Conrad finally makes up his mind and grabs the letters. He scoops them up in his hands, and as he's reaching for the last letter on his desk, the box topples over and falls to the floor. He picks up the box and is about to secure the letters together with the piece of twine when he sees something. A corner of white, hiding underneath one of the bottom flaps of the box. He reaches in carefully and tries to pull it free. After a few tugs, it finally comes loose.

Conrad looks at it. It's a letter. It must have gotten wedged underneath the flap in transport.

He sits down on the edge of his bed and opens it.

It's dated after the Jonah letter. That hadn't been her last letter to him, after all. This was.

Dear Conrad,

I had a dream about Cousins tonight. I dreamt that I was at the beach house, but when I looked around, I was all alone. So I opened the back door and walked out to the beach, and there you were. You were standing there with your face towards the water, with the salty breeze moving through your hair. Even in my dream, I couldn't decide whether to go to you, or to turn back and leave. Then you turned around. You saw me, and you smiled.

Then I woke up. I woke up before I could decide.

The moment I woke up, I grabbed a pen and a sheet of paper to write this to you. I felt like I had to write to you because... I wanted to go to you. Every inch of my body had been pulling me towards you, as if the minute I walked out onto that beach I was a piece of rock that had somehow caught myself in your orbit and had no choice but to get near you, to go the way of gravity and the rules of space and the universe. It all felt so familiar - painfully so. The way being near you feels like being in the sun after a long, wet winter.

I think you and I know it would be simpler to move on - with people who don't have our history. God, it would be so much easier. Less tiptoeing, less effort in trying to guard ourselves and keep distance. But all I can find myself thinking about is how I felt, seeing you in my dream. How that desire to be near you had felt to me like the most powerful thing in the world.

What happens to the love you have for someone when there's so much of it and nowhere for it to go? Where else can it possibly go? So I think that's what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to put it all into this letter. Maybe, as if by some kind of magic, I can seal it in here and give it to you, in hopes that one day I will see you - on the street, or at Cousins - and not feel the way I used to. Instead I will just feel happy, and nostalgic. But free.

-B

Conrad reads the letter once, and then again. His heart is racing. He folds up the letter, shoves it into his pocket, and goes over to his closet. He blindly throws some clothes into a duffel bag.

Then he grabs his car keys and runs out the door.

Thanks for reading! Please review!