I don't own Meyer's characters, Caroll's crazy story or anything but a few ideas.
Major shout out and many thanks go to torisurfergirl! She's saving my ridiculous tense changes and truckin' with me through all the lead up! Thanks girl!
Return to Sender—Chapter 1
"Hey, I'm going on a walk. Text you when I get back in." And with the text sent, I was out the door.
I made it a habit to let Em know when I was out walking at night. Since we graduated high school, he decided to pursue criminal justice and is currently working for the state as one of the best police officers they have. Needless to say, when he first found out I was taking strolls in the middle of the night, he blew a gasket; so now I notify him when I leave and come back home. If it helps him sleep better at night, I guess it doesn't hurt anyone to let him know.
Thankfully, all the drama that went down senior year between Emmett and Rose was resolved, and they're back together. After being healthy for four years, Em proposed. The rest, as they say, is history. We're still waiting on them to set a date, but that hasn't stopped them from being friendly along the way and rekindling their relationship.
As far as Alice goes, she ended up transferring to Chicago with me to study design and got an internship that turned into a full-fledge job once she graduated. She loves it there, and I'm happy for her. I just wish I could see her more often. But, Jasper (ever the romantic) takes good care of her. They're still as inseparable as always. Thankfully, Jasper has a brain in his head and Alice loves to be spontaneous—they eloped their second year of college once Alice transferred and never looked back.
As selfish as it sounds, I'm really glad there hadn't been a formal ceremony, and that I had to miss the celebration party that followed their spontaneous decision. I don't think I could have faced Edward. Yes, it's been over four years, but every time I try to talk or interact with him via text, letter or email I receive a "Return to Sender" notice, a "This email account is no longer valid," or a "The number you are trying to reach is out of service, please try again later." After a while, I grew numb to it. I stopped asking Alice about him, and in return she learned to stop talking to me about him. It worked out happily for the both of us. However, that doesn't take away the sting that it still brings on every time I think about him for any period of time.
When the first return to sender appeared in my mailbox, I didn't think anything about it in college, but after the tenth attempt, I gave up. I threw myself into school and work and landed my dream job in the matter of a year and a half. Thankfully, I was graduating when the rest of my friends were beginning the second semester of their junior year and could do my own thing without their pitying eyes following me.
Part of distracting myself had been volunteering in the theater and art departments, designing backdrops, window displays and the like for the school. I found my niche and really enjoyed it. When one of my more elaborate window displays was being showcased in the city, I was approached by Anthropologie to be on their design team. I don't think I had said yes faster in my life. The rest is history. I travel all over the US; I'm constantly sketching, creating and loving what I do. One of our newest stores at the time opened in Kentucky, and I ended up landing there permanently—or for the foreseeable future—liking the vibe of the city and the people.
So that's where I am now. Walking the streets of the Highland area at 10:30 at night; peeping into the lit windows of the Victorian houses in St. James Court, the small apartments down Bardstown Rd., the grand mansions in the Cherokee Park area and more. I love watching people. They have no idea I'm out enjoying the evening, spying on them and imagining what their lives must be like: what they do, if they're that perfect married couple with 2.4 children or a heroine addict, the bum or the neighborhood busybody, the college student or trust fund baby, the struggling artist or a shop owner. They all live in this part of town. They all work together and respect each other's work. It's why I love this place so much. There are prejudices, yes. However, a certain level of community, trusting and living life together resonates in this small part of the city.
Anymore, my favorite houses are in the Cherokee Park area. They're monstrous residences that have been split up into awkward apartments. My favorite is the one with red brick, all different colored tulips in front of it during the spring and a sweet, iron fence surrounding the tiny yard that adorned the front of the building before the sidewalk and parking took over. The best part of it though was the huge, circular, stained glass window on the second floor. A new resident had moved in about six months ago, and like me, it looked like they had insomnia. They would stay up for hours and hours banging on their piano. The neighbors hated it, but I loved to sit on the little step outside the house and listen until around midnight when they would quit and go on with their life.
Tonight is "The Firebird" by Stravinsky. The piece is fierce, powerful, aggressive and yet gentle and careful at the same time, an absolutely great mix of control and carelessness.
Like most nights, the playing dies down a few minutes past midnight and I return home a different way than I came enjoying the cool breeze the river blowing gently through the streets. Summers are hot in Kentucky. Most people consider Kentucky to be a southern state, but say that to any local and they'll rip your head off. However, summers are just as hot and muggy in Tennessee, and they consider themselves to be southern states.
As I climb the few stairs into my skinny, brick house with wild daises on the front porch and mums running along the exterior, I still don't feel tired. The next day is a day off, and for some reason, my mind is wired. Going into my room, I change from my black summer dress into some comfort clothes from Old Navy—shorts and a sweatshirt.
Grabbing a mug, I made a quick mocha and grabbed a notepad and pen and went back outside—the night was too good to waste. Carefully setting my mug down on the small table I had on the porch for this reason, I plopped down in the accompanying chair and began to sketch and write nothing in particular. Somehow, my abstract doodles turned into piano keys and a piano that looked like something straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Laughing to myself, I wrote underneath it, "To the Amazing Pianist, who unknowingly shares their soul with me on nice evenings. Thanks for the free concerts."
Folding it carefully into an envelope, I wrote the street address on the paper, added a stamp and stuck it in my mailbox before turning in for the night. Before letting my body completely succumb to sleep, I shot a text off to Emmett to let him know I got in safe.
My Future Husband,
It's been a while, hasn't it? I honestly think the last time I wrote to you was in high school—four years ago. I guess I was mad because I thought I met you and things didn't go my way. Then, I though I'd meet you when I was in school in Chicago, but that didn't happen either—as far as I know.
In all actuality, I shouldn't be mad. For the past two years, give or take some, I've been here, there and every where…never staying in one place long enough to really make connections or meet anyone except the local Starbucks staff. (But if you ask me any of their names, I'll tell you Joe, because he was the best impression.)
Not like any of this really matters though. At this point in time you're a fictional ghost my imagination has conjured up so I don't feel as lonely. Sorry, that sounded a bit harsh. I mean, if I give this to you one day, you'll be real and probably ask me if I was drunk after reading this letter. (I'm not drunk, I promise. Just a little depressed and moody, I suppose.)
Regardless, of all that. If we have met, hello again, but if we have not had the privilege of corresponding, interacting, and communicating, I look forward to doing so. You're gonna have to be one heck of a guy to put up with me, and I think I'll have to be just as great—but in different ways. I hope you're better than my dreams…I can pretty much guarantee that you are, but just sayin'.
Anyways, I love you. And if we haven't met, I look forward to that day.
Love,
Your Future Wife—B
And…that's that. Review? Tell me your thoughts. I know it's been a while, but are there any people out there still following Love Letters?