Authors: Nicola Graham
Terry tells me that the girl I saw you with is your girlfriend, Sharon. To be jealous when I am halfway around the world is a little stupid, so I am going to try hard not to sound that way. Maybe you can write and tell me about how you met and how long you have been together
.
I am currently single, focusing on school and getting ready to take my driving test soon. Can you believe they let you drive at sixteen here? I know you are probably jealous right now, because I am even going to have a car—an old, beat-up Volkswagen Rabbit, but it’s a car. So wish me luck!
I have adjusted to my life here much better now, so I think that writing to you again may be easier this time around. I did struggle in the beginning for many different reasons. I am not upset that you have a girlfriend. I understand that you had to move on with your life, just like I had to start my new life here. I left, Matthew, I had no choice in the matter, and our lives have gone in different directions. At least right now we can continue to be very special friends, and who knows what the future will hold? I would love to hear back from you
.
Love, Kate
P.S. I still love you too
.
So begins a fresh start for Matthew and me as pen pals, as friends. The correspondence is usually lighthearted and casual, never too in depth about feelings or emotions, but I find him more therapeutic than a diary. Matthew only mentions Sharon once—when he replies to me the first time—and I find out later from Diana that they broke up shortly after my birthday. I never ask Matthew about her again, and he never mentions seeing anyone else.
I keep busy at school, and besides going out on the odd date here and there, I am not seriously interested in seeing anyone. Knowing that Matthew loves me is somehow enough; I feel fulfilled. There are times when I miss his presence physically, and I often deal with those difficult times by finding a substitute. I am honest with Matthew about dating, but I keep it simple, and he never asks for details. To be honest, by the time his next letter arrives, last month’s boy is old news anyway, and I always have plenty of other things to write about.
Christmas comes and goes, springtime turns to summer, and fall soon arrives as I enter my senior year of high school. Diana and I are still writing, and although our letters are much more infrequent, our friendship is still very much intact. She has already finished school in England and has been working in Harptree for the past four months in an estate agent’s office as a secretary. Terry has moved on to a larger building site on the outskirts of London, and neither of them sees Matthew at all. Their relationship appears to be strong at the four-year mark, and she often writes about their plans to get engaged and move in together, but for now, they
each live at home, and Friday evenings are still spent going up to The Ole Magpie and to St. George’s in the town square. It all seems very routine and a bit boring to me, but Diana seems happy.
My correspondence with Matthew is still regular, and I never find myself struggling for material to write about. His replies are always engaging and sweet. He has recently changed companies and is now designing kitchens for a builder in Stablesworth, which is an hour commute north on the train each day. He is passionate about designing. He’s also quite an artist, lately sharing his skills in my letters by sketching little butterflies in pencil all around the paper; they fly in and out among the paragraphs. He often says butterflies remind him of me, which always brings a smile to my face, and until the end of time I believe I will think of him when a butterfly flutters past me.
He talks about one day opening his own company and being a successful business owner. He dreams of being able to have the finer things in life that he never had as a child, and he is taking steps toward making those dreams come true. In my replies, I encourage him to follow his passion. I find it amazing that he has that desire inside; I’m envious that he already knows what he wants to do with his life.
As for me, I don’t know what I want to do about anything, especially my future. Deadlines for college applications are approaching rapidly, and I know I have to apply; deep down, I want to apply. If I allow myself to admit it, I have changed; the simple life that Harptree once offered me isn’t enough anymore. California has influenced me and opened
up a new world of opportunity. What Diana describes in her letters sounds dreary, and I cannot imagine myself living there again, restricted by the boundaries of a small town. The constant gloomy weather and that constrictive life sound suffocating compared to the sunshine and endless possibilities at my doorstep in Southern California. Going back no longer seems to be an option for me. I have transformed, and I am no longer the simple girl I once was.
Even though I do love Matthew, I don’t think that’s enough to sustain me, not anymore, not after experiencing life here in California. The world is at my fingertips, and even at my young age, I know I would be crazy to let this slip away. With my grades, a partial academic scholarship is a strong possibility, and a bachelor’s degree is only four more years. Maybe then I will know what I want from life.
In spring, I receive my acceptance to Pepperdine University, and as my high school graduation approaches, my mum announces that we are returning home for a holiday in early August, before I start university. Two years have passed since I was last there, and this time I am conflicted about going back. Part of me would rather stay behind. I am thrilled at the chance to see my family, and Diana, of course, but I’m unsure of what it will be like to see Matthew.
Matthew’s letters are wonderful, and I feel solidly connected to him, but I’m insecure about how things will be if we are face to face. Will he still like me? Will I still like him? There is no way of knowing if our physical attraction will still be there. I will be turning eighteen in September, finally an adult, old
enough to return to England of my own free will if I wish. Yet he has never mentioned anything about my birthday or about my possible return. Perhaps he doesn’t think of me like that anymore. After all, we corresponded more like best friends or siblings.
I have neglected to tell him about my college acceptance. Somehow, I always manage to avoid the subject of what I plan to do after school finishes—easily done in a letter. It feels like uncharted territory, and I am scared to death to have to face him. Seeing him means telling the truth, owning up to the fact that I don’t want to live in England, at least not right now, and it means making a decision about our future. We can’t continue to write to each other forever; eventually one of us is going to get seriously involved with someone who actually lives in the same country. I need to be honest with myself; this long-distance nonrelationship isn’t working for me, and perhaps it’s time to call it quits.
CHAPTER 11
The Whites
Apparently, time stands still in Harptree, as once again I find myself staying with family friends across the street from our old house. We are down for the weekend and will leave for Los Angeles on Friday. The prior week has been spent at my grandparents’ home, with constant visits from aunts, uncles, and cousins. All of which has been a haze, as my mind has been preoccupied, consumed with how I am going to speak to Matthew.
I am sitting upstairs in the second floor hallway in Sally and Jonnie White’s three-story detached Victorian brick home, surrounded by antique furniture. Long oriental runners hide the glossy varnished wood floors that creak and moan as you walk around the house, while the clean smell of
burning sage flows gently as Sally cleanses the energy.
The Whites are old family friends and hippies of a sort. By day, they are normal folks who own a packaging supply shop in town, but at night, they play local gigs in a folk band; Sally sings, and Jonnie plays acoustic guitar. Whenever we are here, there is a lot of homemade wine consumption, incense burning, and laughter, a side of my mother I rarely see.
I am sitting cross-legged on the floor, my back resting against the banister beside the telephone, nervously playing with a folded letter in my hand. Matthew gave me his work and home telephone numbers in his last letter, after I told him I was coming home. I hadn’t known the dates we would be in Harptree, so all he’d said was to phone him as soon as I got here. We have been in England for seven days and I haven’t called. I’ve been in Harptree since ten this morning, and it is now four o’clock in the afternoon, and I still haven’t called him. Diana isn’t aware I am here yet; I’m stalling, and I don’t understand why. Well, I do, but I don’t want to admit it to myself.
Finally mustering the courage, I pick up the receiver; one by one I dial the numbers on the rotary dial, and holding the phone to my ear, I hear the ringing on the other end and feel nauseated. My hand is shaking. I have dialed his home number deliberately, as I doubt he will be home from work yet. My philosophy is this will help me get over my initial jitters and make it easier to make the next call. Suddenly I hear the line pick up, and a deep voice I barely recognize speaks into my ear.
“Hello, Harptree 472958.” The low voice seeps into my head.
“Matthew?” My voice echoes into the phone’s receiver. I can’t believe he actually answered.
“Kate? Is that you? Where are you? Are you here?” His voice is frantic, and in this moment, all my nervousness disappears. His voice calms me, and I smile, trying to imagine what he looks like right now standing in his flat speaking to me. Butterflies take flight.
“Yes, I am. We’re staying with the Whites again, you know, opposite my old house?” I add, “I didn’t expect you to answer. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
His voice is muffled slightly, and I hear rustling on the other end of the telephone. He mumbles something about it being Friday, off at lunchtime, and then, clear as anything, he announces, “I’m on my way,” and the line goes dead.
I find myself bemused, standing in the hallway, phone in my hand. My hair is thrown up in an untidy ponytail, I have no makeup on, and I’m wearing three-day-old sweatpants and an ugly sweatshirt. I roughly calculate that anyone traveling by foot across Harptree can do it within ten or fifteen minutes regardless of which direction they are coming from, so if I’m lucky I may have that much time. I scream with excitement, slamming the phone down, and make a mad dash into the bathroom.
Exactly seventeen minutes later I emerge in clean jeans, Converse tennis shoes, and a cute pink sweatshirt that hangs slightly off my tanned shoulder. I have no idea what the latest fashions are in London, but this all I can manage on such short
notice, and it screams California girl. My long, sun-kissed blond hair is still in a ponytail but much neater, my eyelashes have a coat of black mascara, I’m wearing some light eye liner, and my lips shine with a splash of strawberry flavored lip gloss. Personally, I think I look like I’m ready to take a stroll down Huntington Beach Pier, not take a walk around Harptree, but it’s too late to change now. This time, I definitely look like I don’t belong.
The doorbell rings, and I yell loudly that I’ve got it. I bolt down two flights of stairs to arrive at the front door before any of the adults in the lounge can make it up from their wine and conversation. I poke my head into the smoke-filled room quickly to announce I am leaving. I find Sally, Jonnie, my mum, and Peter laughing and listening to music, completely immersed in cheeky conversation with two empty wine bottles on the coffee table.
“Grab a spare key on your way out, Katie,” Sally shouts over the music, smiling and waving her half-empty glass at me, as if pointing to where the keys are.
“Will do!” I reply, quickly backing out of the room. “I might be late, so don’t wait up!” I close the door and escape before they can question me.
The doorbell rings again, and as I grab a spare key, I spy Matthew with his back to the door, his silhouette outlined through the glass. He looks like he is wearing jeans and a dark jacket of some kind, and he takes a step away from the porch, unable to keep still. I take advantage of this moment and catch him off guard, quickly opening the front door.
“A little impatient, are we?” I tease with an enormous smile on my face.
Matthew snaps around instantly, and in two strides he is back on the porch, his large body filling the small area. He pushes me up against the door that I have barley pulled shut behind me. His warm hands cup both sides of my face, cradling me like a porcelain doll, and then, bending his knees to lower himself to my height, he fiercely and passionately kisses me. My hands go limp at my sides, and if it weren’t for the support of his hands holding my face and the weight of his body pinning me against the door, I fear I’d collapse. When he steps back, he leaves me breathless, not only from his kiss but from the sight of him. Any reservations I have about physical attraction disappear, and my mind is wiped clear of my rehearsed conversation about moving forward and going our separate ways. I immediately know that I’m in a terrible spot of trouble.
Matthew is now twenty years old, a full-grown man in every way, standing about six foot four and looking fit and lean. He is wearing a pair of well-fitting black jeans, black shoes, and a black leather bomber jacket with a plaid grey and white button-down shirt tucked in underneath. He looks very casual, thank goodness, considering how I am dressed. His dark brown hair is not too short; it falls around his neckline, but it’s cut neatly enough to control the natural curl that he dislikes. Naturally parting in the middle, his hair falls to either side of his face toward his ears; it suits him well, but I think he should let it grow longer. I see a gold stud earring in his left ear, something I didn’t expect, and a gold chain around his neck.
“Come on, let’s go,” he says, reaching out his
hand and snapping me out of my visual observation.
“Where are we going?” I inquire as I slip my hand into his, feeling his skin against mine. Our fingers perfectly entwine as we head down the pathway onto the main road.
“I didn’t have much time to change, so I’m not dressed to go out.” I wince, dreading that Matthew may want to head to The Ole Magpie. It is Friday, after all, and Diana and Terry will be there later.