“Next,” the cashier calls, and she looks up. “Oh, hello Mr. Moffatt.”

I cringe. She knows me by name now. “Hello.” I slide my letter over the counter.

“Same as always? International tracked and signed to Oahu.”

“Thank you.” I take out my wallet.

“I hope these are love letters.” She smiles dreamily as she puts it through her computer.

Just ring it up, stupid.

“I mean, it’s so romantic, you sending a letter to Pinkie every day for a month.”

I glance back at Christopher and he gives a subtle shake of his head in disgust. “Loser,” he mouths.

I twist my lips in disapproval as I turn back to her. Why don’t you tell the whole post office, bitch?

“I wish I had an admirer as devoted as you.” She smiles.

Shut the fuck up.

That’s it, tomorrow I find a new post office.

KATE

I struggle up the road with my new canvas, which is huge. Like the ones I used to paint when I was just a girl.

I’m addicted to my new hobby and every day is better than the last.

The sun, the sea, my life here . . . Edgar’s letters.

I have a new thirst for life, my old self is returning day by day.

There’s no pressure, no grief . . . only happy memories and freedom. I’m going to call Elliot soon; his quirky letters have made me feel closer to him. I read them constantly and may even sleep with the box I keep them all in.

I want to fix this; he’s worth trying for.

I come around the corner to see Richard’s van parked out the front and I wave and smile. “Hi, you’re early today?”

He holds up three red envelopes. “It’s Monday, three letters today.”

My broad smile nearly splits my face. Elliot writes to me every day.

And I know we didn’t have a romantic beginning, but he’s definitely making up for it. Not that his letters are romantic, they’re weird and funny little stories from his day. He sends me photos and clippings. Each one makes me smile, each one makes my day that much brighter.

“Wow, that’s a big canvas. You paint?” Richard asks.

“Oh.” I shrug, slightly embarrassed. “Abysmally, but it relaxes me . . . so that’s the main thing, right?”

Richard chuckles. “Paint a picture of me delivering your letters every day.”

I laugh. “Okay, although you wouldn’t be able to tell what it was.”

“I’m sure you’re underestimating yourself.” He smiles, I sign for my letters and bounce up the stairs.

I read through the envelopes to find Saturday’s letter, as I like to read them in order.

My dearest Pinkie,

In light of my inability to call you, and not wanting to stalk you, serial-killer style, I have decided to go old school and write you a letter.

To receive a total package experience, please spray this letter with the spray that is enclosed in the envelope.

I smile as I imagine Elliot pouring his aftershave into these tiny bottles. I wonder, does he use a funnel? And who makes these tiny labels?

I notice a photograph wrapped in white paper and I tear it open.

It’s a picture of an open hand, palm facing up. It has terrible huge blisters all over it.

What the hell? What’s he done?

I read on.

Actual footage of my right hand.

I burst out laughing. “Are you serious?”

My love, things are grim.

My body needs you.

It’s been eight weeks since you touched me, it feels like forever.

I waited thirty-five years to find you.

How much longer must I wait to hold you again?

Forever yours,

Elliot.

xo

Emotion overwhelms me and I blink through tears.

I walk outside and put my canvas on the easel and pour myself a glass of wine, turn up Taylor Swift’s song “Style” on repeat, and begin to fill my canvas with paint. I smile as I listen to the words.

ELLIOT

I sit on my deck and stare out over Enchanted. It’s late, near midnight . . . but I can’t sleep.

I haven’t been able to relax in what feels like weeks.

I’m mentally drained.

Kate’s in Hawaii . . . and all I want to do is go to her and make her come back with me, but her brother’s words keep rolling around in my head.

I know I could go to her, talk her around, and bring her home . . . but she needs to want to be here.

She knows how I feel and yet, she still left me.

How could I have fucked this up so bad?

I think over the events of that first week after she left and, to be honest, I’m glad Kate didn’t have to suffer it. I’ve had to lodge court proceedings to silence the gossip about the love triangle; it’s been a media-circus nightmare.

I lift my Scotch to my lips and sip it slowly, and the heat burns my throat as it goes down.

I’ve been sending Pinkie letters, and baring my soul, but something’s not sitting right.

I’m missing something in this puzzle.

I have no idea what it is, but as the days go by and still no word from Kate, my agitation grows.

I refill my glass of Scotch and light a cigar, blow out a thin stream of smoke into the crisp night air.

My mind goes back to the picture she had framed for me for my birthday and I smile. I go and retrieve it from inside and stare at it in my hands.

It’s a photograph of me taken from behind, in a navy suit, staring out over the lake with the ducks around my feet. It’s early morning and the mist is rolling on the paddocks in the background.

Such a simple image and yet somehow it feels so intimate—her secret view of me when I wasn’t looking.

I turn it over and look at the back of the frame, and I wonder what the photo looks like without the glass on it.

I retrieve a knife and undo the frame and I take the image out, turn it over and see her handwriting.

Happy Birthday my darling,

I love you.

Always, Kate.

My chest constricts and I read it again . . . and again . . . and again.

Always, Kate.

Always means forever . . . until it didn’t.

I lift the cigar to my lips and inhale deeply. I’m sad and forlorn, full of regret.

My hands are tied, I can’t contact her. I can’t make her come home, no matter how much I want to. I have to do this on her terms and respect her decision.

She has to want to come home to me.

And I hate it.

I tip my head back and drain the glass, then I fill it again so fast that it sloshes over the sides.

Patience isn’t my strong point.

Two months.

I write to her every day . . . and yet, no word back.

Does she even get my letters?

“Thank you,” Christopher says to the waitress as she puts a plate of fortune cookies down in front of us.

It’s Friday night and Christopher has dragged me out for dinner.

I want to be anywhere else but here.

He passes the plate over to me. “Take one.”

“Pass.”

He shoves the plate in my face. “Fucking take one, you love this shit.”

I roll my eyes and take one, crack it open.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.

I raise my eyebrow. Ha . . . once upon a time I would have believed that.

“What did you get?” Christopher asks.

I throw my note over and he smiles. “Well, if that was the case, your life is one massive fucking web.”

I stare at him.

“You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty fucking freaky that you’ve been chasing this artist for years . . . and she turns up just when you found a girl you fell for. And you and Kate meeting online . . . out of all the people in the world, you met her. The woman you were already seeing.”

I frown as I listen. “It is weird . . . isn’t it?”

“I mean, what are the chances of that actually happening?”