8 | Weep With Those Who Weep (Part 4 of 4)

Within a week of learning her soulmate's name, Margaret also learned that 'John' is the most common male name on the planet, second only to 'Muhammad'. She met five Johns in her travels from New York to Milton, and each time she thought she might vomit from the stress. There was John the Uber Driver in Boston where she spent two days with an old friend of her mum's before flying out to Milton. And then there was John the TSA Officer who flagged her for a random search, John the Coffee Kiosk Manager who flirted with her—and every female in the queue, John Who Snored all the way from Boston to Milton, and John the Angry Passenger whose luggage was mistakenly sent to Orlando, Florida.

By the time she arrived in Milton, Margaret almost wished she didn't know his name. Not knowing would be easier than this half knowing, her entire body strung out with hope and anxiety every time another John crossed her path. She allowed herself a grim smile, imagining how smug he would be to know he'd been right to be cautious.

As she stepped out of the terminal, Margaret wasn't prepared for the cold biting wind that whipped around her, pulling at her thin coat and scarf, tossing wet grey snow about her, and yet she felt—oddly warm. Margaret paused, the overwhelming feeling of isolation and helplessness that had always clung to her dropping away, like a weight falling off her back. Somehow this dirty lonely wind-tossed city felt more like home than any place she'd ever been, like it had been waiting for her, the wind whispering something like hope into her ear.

She glanced at the snowy greyness, her eyes sliding over the Milton skyline, and paused on the outline of a church steeple. The warm feeling in her chest grew, like a molten thread shooting through her soul. Margaret turned about in the crowd of departing passengers, studying the unfamiliar faces, arms curled tightly around her chest.

"John?"

It was the same whispered plea she'd repeated every morning and every night since she learned his name. But there was no answer.

Still the warm feeling of him burned over her skin, every shift of his emotions clearer than they'd ever been before. Margaret leaned heavily against the concrete facade of the airport, trying to slow her racing heart. Tears stung her eyes as she pushed down her own frustration. Or was it his?

She rubbed her eyes, her breath shuddering in her lungs, "Where are you?"

"Hey lady, you gonna ride or not?"

Margaret blinked at the taxi driver shouting in her direction. A small line of dirty yellow cars idled outside the airport. She straightened and nodded, the cab driver hurrying forward to load her suitcase, slamming the boot shut.

"Where to?"

Margaret's words caught in her throat. She wished she'd ignored John's stubborn caution and just told him everything. Then he would know she was here in Milton and he would come—

"Look, I don't have all day, lady."

"Sorry," Margaret shook herself. "What's that church there?"

"Saint Jude's Cathedral."

"Is it far from the college?"

"'Bout ten, fifteen minutes."

Margaret mentally tallied the cash in her wallet, and then nodded. "Take me to the cathedral, please."

John did his best to bury himself under work all the next week, shoving aside a nagging feeling of regret. His mother tolerated his absence to a point but this morning she insisted he stay home to help her prepare for their Christmas party later that evening. John argued that Fanny would be a hell of a lot more helpful than he was, and in the end his mother gave in—like she always did.

Marlborough Shipping Depot was all but deserted, except for Tucker Williams and John. They spent most of the morning going over all the trucks with a fine tooth comb, making notes.

"The report on seven says—"

"I don't give a damn what Wolf says," John growled. "This truck is a mess. I want it overhauled before it gets—"

The rest of his sentence dropped off as a thread of molten heat crawled across his chest. He could feel her without even trying, the warmth of her presence like the sun shining through the three broad skylights of the bay, lighting everything up. As if she were standing right next to him—

John staggered back a step.

"Master?"

John yanked his mind back into focus. Williams was studying him, a confused frown wrinkling his brown weathered face.

"You alright?"

"I—" John cleared his throat and handed his clipboard to the older man. "I need to—we're done. Go home, Williams."

"I'll leave the reports on your desk," Williams called after him.

But John didn't bother answering. He was in his truck and pulling into traffic before his mind had time to catch up with his body. His eyes darted across the skyline, habit taking over as he wove through the slush-lined streets. The feeling of her spread from his chest out into his limbs, his whole body heated from the inside out. He could sense her frustration, as if it were melting into his own, could almost see her slumped shoulders as she tried to decide where to go. A church spire flashed across his mind. John shook his head, trying to clear it.

"What the hell is going on?"

But she didn't hear him.

John sat at a red light, staring at the flow of traffic, his eyes darting from car to car, the endless sea of faces blending together. He'd caught himself looking for her in crowds before. Would he even know if he saw her? Directly in front of him stretched the stone tower of the cathedral, pulling his eyes up towards the gloomy stone gray sky. The light changed and he steered the truck into the church parking lot.

John almost wished the feeling of her would just disappear. It would've been easier than this—to suddenly have her every emotion sharp and clear, like she was—here, somehow. But she wasn't. John shoved himself out his truck and slammed the door, swearing under his breath.

The wind ripped past, snow swirling around him, but he barely noticed. The church sanctuary breathed with a life of its own, his footsteps a hollow echo on the wooden floor mingling with the sounds of singing in the choir loft. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve and he'd almost forgotten.

John nodded to the old priest and sat heavily in the back pew. The schola in the choir loft continued their rehearsal for the Christmas Eve Mass, the resonant voices drifting down and over him, the haunting melody pricking at his soul. He slowly pulled off his hat and scrubbed his face with his hands. He should've swallowed his damn pride and just told her everything when he had the chance. God only knew when they would talk again. Regret twisted at his gut and John tossed aside his hat and rested his face in his hands.

"I love you."

The gruff words weren't desperate or pleading—they were just true. Maybe it would make everything worse, but John no longer cared. He needed her to know and deep down he didn't give a shit that she was barely eighteen. The heat in his chest blazed, almost painfully hot, and John swore under his breath. He yanked himself to his feet and marched towards the doors. He would wait and love as long as he had to—until he found her or until it killed him. But sitting on his ass wasn't going to help.

Margaret stepped out of the cab, snatching at her scarf as a torrent of wind whipped past her. She shivered as she studied the cathedral, a strange feeling of peaceful familiarity stealing over her. The car park was almost deserted except for a handful of cars. Margaret frowned as her eyes fell on a rusted blue pickup truck in one corner. She pulled her Polaroid camera from her pack and took a quick picture of the truck, unable to shake the odd sensation that she recognized it.

But how could she?

Margaret started towards the church doors, studying the polaroid of the truck, when a loud shrill ringing made her jump. She dug her mobile from her bag and ducked around the opposite side of the church, away from the doors and car park, hugging the wall.

"Margaret Hale, you are the absolute worst."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "What've I done now, Eds?"

"You promised to ring when you landed,"

Margaret sighed a little as her cousin scolded her and then began to chatter away about Uni, her boyfriend James Lennox, and all manner of dull things. Margaret glanced at the darkening sky, and leaned heavily against the stones.

She stiffened a little, the thread of warmth in her chest suddenly blazing, making her unbearably hot all over. Margaret pushed herself back from the wall and glanced around, but she was alone. The growling sound of an engine broke through the howling wind. It revved once, twice, and then faded, and as it did, Margaret suddenly felt colder.

"Edith, I have to go."

"And then I told James to tell Henry that of course you'd love to see him when he's next in America—"

Margaret ignored her cousin and hung up, walking back around the church towards the front doors, unable to shake the sudden dreadful feeling of being left behind. Perhaps the cab driver got tired of waiting or—

The yellow taxi cab was still there, the smoke from the exhaust hanging in the air. Margaret's frown deepened and she shivered. Her gaze flicked to the corner where the blue truck was parked. But it was gone. She glanced at a pair of taillights quickly fading into the distance, biting her lip.

"Hey, lady, how much longer?" The cabbie had lowered his window. "Your meter is still running."

Margaret knew she ought to go on to the college and meet her dad, but she didn't want to leave—not yet.

"Thank you," she said, digging in her pocket, handing the cab driver most of her cash. She'd find a bus when she was ready. "Happy Christmas."

The cab driver shrugged and helped her with her bag.

The church sanctuary was warm and welcoming with its flickering candles and melodic strains of choir music. The organist was playing her favourite aria, the haunting tune filling her with a pang of loneliness and regret. The last fading rays of sunlight leaked through the stain glass windows painting one side of the sanctuary in jeweled light. Margaret moved toward the warmth, drawn like a moth to a flame until she faced the stained glass depiction of Saint John the Apostle, his young handsome face, both kind and pitying, as if he could see the ache in her very soul.

She blinked at her tears and inched her way into the pew, tucking her roller and book bag underneath. Her foot caught on something and Margaret pulled out a faded red baseball cap, with 'Marlborough Shipping' stitched across the front. She stared at it for a long odd moment, the warm feeling in her chest expanding again. The hat was soft and well worn, smelling of petrol, coffee, and soap. It was familiar in a way she didn't understand, as if she knew it already. It made her feel safe— like Milton, the cathedral, and the rusted blue truck. As if John were here, somehow—but he wasn't, and she didn't understand what was happening. Margaret ran a finger over the stitched letters, her skin almost burning with the heat pouring into her soul.

"That's mine."

The voice was rough, deep, and a little harsh. And so very tired. It wrapped itself around Margaret until she thought she couldn't breathe. She would've recognised it anywhere. Every nerve and muscle burned, her soul telling her exactly who was standing in the aisle. But part of her almost refused to accept what was happening. Margaret had thought of and dreamed about and imagined this moment so many times—

She didn't want to look at him, didn't want to be wrong, didn't want to lose him all over again.

"Sorry," her voice was low and soft, shaking slightly. "Are you John?"

Margaret heard the shift of his boots and she finally found the courage to look up. He looked like any other man in his work boots, jeans, flannel shirt, and canvas jacket. His black hair was tousled and wet with melted snow, and he needed a shave and a wash. A wary weary look creased his face and darkened his blue eyes as he stared at her. Then he stepped closer, a frown making him look harsh, but she felt the tremor inside him.

"Do I—do I know you?"

Margaret stood, the hat clutched in her hands, "I hope you do."

Her whole body trembled. He was so close and she couldn't stop herself. Margaret rushed forward and slipped her arms around him, holding on tight.

"John—"

His arms wound around her, so hard it almost hurt. She could feel him struggle to breathe, feel his confusion, his doubt—and the crushing flood of relief. It was beautiful and terrible—an overpowering feeling of rest he hadn't had since he was a boy. Margaret began to cry.

"I—I thought I'd never find you."

Margaret wasn't certain if they were his words or hers, but it didn't really matter. She buried her face in his shirt breathing in that same smell of petrol, coffee, and soap. He was real and he was here.

"I don't know your name," his voice was muffled in her hair.

"Margaret."

John let out a deep shuddering breath, his arms tightening around her. And then he was kissing her, or she was kissing him. It didn't really matter. The moment her lips touched his, she felt her soul expand—as if it were pouring into his body. Margaret knew she was still herself, and yet she also knew John was irreversibly part of her, his soul bound up in hers until one of them died.

"Oh shit," John grumbled into her mouth, trying to stop, and yet not quite able to pull away. "Are you eighteen yet?"

"The bloody hell," Margaret snapped, kissing him again. "I've been waiting for you for a very long time," she murmured against his mouth, cupping his face in her hands. She didn't think she'd ever get tired of those burning blue eyes. "I won't wait a single moment longer."

"Maggie—"

"Shut up, John."

Margaret made certain he was unable to say anything else for quite some time, both of them forgetting their past and pain in that perfect moment of being found.

AN : I hope this was worth the wait. Cheers.