When I finish it, I say, “You know what? You’re right. We can bake.”

  “We’re exceptionally good at following recipes,” Josie says, from her spot next to me. Her parents are here too.

  Christian nods toward his sister. “Are these Greta’s recipes? I remember this one Christmas when the two of you made seven-layer brownies, and they were the best.”

  Josie beams. “Those were really good. Wes, we’ll have to make those next.”

  “We will,” I say.

  Christian leans back on the couch, shifts the baby to his other arm. The last time Christian brought up baking, he could barely remember his sister liked to putter around in the kitchen. Now, he’s remembering details and sharing them. It’s a welcome shift.

  From across the couch, Josie’s mom meets my gaze. “Wesley, tell us more about you. What do you like to do for fun?”

  Easiest question ever. I drape an arm around Josie, squeezing her shoulder. “Mostly I like to spend time with your daughter. That’s what makes me happiest.”

  Josie’s mom tilts her head, knitting her brow like she’s trying to figure me out, then says, “I can’t think of a better answer.”

  In the early afternoon, we make our way toward the door to head to Sonoma and see my dad. But before we go, Josie’s mom pulls her aside. “There’s something I have for you. A gift, if you will.”

  “What is it?” Josie asks.

  “Come with me.”

  I watch as they head down the hall, wondering what this gift could be.

  49

  SALTY SWEET TEARS

  Josie

  This isn’t ominous at all. My mom hardly ever pulls me aside. But she has this mom look on her face, like she wants to tell me something Very Important.

  Tension winds through me as she leads me into the guest room where she’s been staying, then shuts the door. The sound of it clicking freaks me out. Yes, she said she had a gift, but I can’t escape this queasy feeling. “What is it, Mom? Are you sick? Is something going on?” All I can think is that she’s next. I’ve lost someone I love already, and I don’t want to go through that again.

  She frowns sympathetically. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not sick. I’m great, and I have something for you. It’s from…” She draws a breath—a fortifying one it seems. “My sister.”

  My pulse stops. I can barely breathe. “W-what do you mean?” I stammer out.

  “When my sister wrote you the list, she gave something to me too. Before…” my mom says in careful bites, like this is hard for her. “That’s why I kept asking you from time to time if you had started the list. Because she wanted you to have something when you finished it. I don’t know if you’ve finished it but I have a feeling that you have.” She pauses, like she can read list-finishing in my eyes. I’m not sure she can, or if she just figured two years was about right for me to make it through. “Am I right?”

  I’ve finished nine items of the top ten. I still have number ten. But ten isn’t something you finish. Ten is an everyday kind of thing. So I feel like I’m being honest to Greta’s memory when I say, “Yes.”

  Also I want what my mother has badly.

  She spins around, heads to her suitcase, and takes a letter from the inside pouch. She carries it in both hands like it’s precious—something excavated from an archaeological dig that she must handle with great care. I stare at it. I can’t look anywhere but at a simple cream envelope and then the letters on the front. The most familiar handwriting ever spells my name.

  I want to snatch it, but I take it carefully and hold it tight to my chest. “Thank you.”

  The letter whispers to me the whole time I’m at Frieda’s house. It taunts me, saying I’m here. But I focus on meeting Wesley’s dad for the first time and Frieda for the third time. Even though we’ve of course already met, Wesley re-introduces me to her saying, “Like I said, this is my girlfriend.” And Frieda is cordial to me for the first time ever. Wesley’s father is friendly enough too, but I love Wesley’s sister immediately. She welcomes me with open arms, and so does her girlfriend and their dog. But I think about the letter my mom gave me the whole time. I don’t dare open it until I’m home and safe. Hours later, after we’ve driven back from Sonoma and pulled into the garage, I’m desperate to rip it open. I told Wes about it on the drive up and told him, too, that I was going to wait.

  We go inside, take off our shoes, and head straight to the living room. I fish the letter out of my bag, and it’s like I’ve slipped out of time, like I’m floating above my body as I stare at the envelope one more time.

  It’s not often that you get a letter from the next life.

  “Do you want me to leave so you can read it alone?” he asks, his tone gentle.

  I shake my head. “I want you to stay.”

  He squeezes my hand then lets go.

  I close my eyes, breathing in the quiet stillness on Christmas night. When I open them, I slide my finger under the flap and read.

  My darling Josie,

  By now, you’ve finished the list. Knowing you, you’ve probably researched it thoroughly. Done your homework. Studied every single item. Am I right, baby? Or am I right?

  Of course I’m right because I know you, and I hope after taking on this top ten list you know yourself a little better—the person I’ve been so lucky to know for your whole life. A woman who’s funny, kind, bold, bright, caring. And maybe now, a little more daring.

  You might be wondering why I left this list for you. Was it a way for us to stay connected once I’m gone? Is it a way for you to honor my memory?

  Please.

  It’s none of those things.

  I gave this to you because I’ve lived exactly the life I wanted. So much of that is because of the one thing I did that’s at the top of my own list of no regrets—spending so much time with you.

  You made me so very happy in this life, and, I’m sure, I’ll carry that joy with me into the next one.

  With so much love in all our lives,

  Greta

  I don’t know how long I cry. But it’s long enough to go through a whole box of tissues, to turn my face red and splotchy, to soak through Wes’s shirt with my salty tears as he holds me and strokes my hair.

  But they’re happy tears. Or maybe they’re the happiest. The kind that only come once you’ve made it through the sad moments and come out on the other side.

  50

  THAT SAID

  Josie

  The library’s open the next day since lots of patrons like to hang out with books they can borrow during the holidays. As Wes drives me to work—he’s seriously the best chauffeur with or without a shirt—my phone pings with an email. The envelope icon winks at me on the top of the screen.

  A promise, full of hope. It’s from the library in Petaluma. “This might be it,” I say, then I tell him who it’s from.

  “Open it right now,” he says as he pulls up in front of my little library and turns off the engine. I only have a few more days here.

  I click on it, and it takes all of three seconds for my heart to sink.

  It’s the “that said” in the email.

  It’s one of those turns of phrases that means a rejection is coming. We enjoyed the interview with you immensely and you were one of our top candidates, but that said, we had many exemplary candidates for the information specialist role. We wish you the best in your job search.

  I hate that I want to cry.

  “You’ll get the next one,” he says, reaching for my hand and squeezing it.

  I nod, then fight off the disappointment welling in my chest and go inside. It’s hard to focus on work, even though I try. It’s hard to focus on anything but the ticking clock, especially when we gather for our last trivia night after my shift—a farewell party for me.

  “You’ve done wonders,” Thalia says. “Perhaps something will come up in the future…”

  “I hope,” I reply, and I do, even though the odds don’t seem to be in my favor.

  The next morning, I keep that focus on hope. In the afternoon, my phone trills as I’m finishing up a display of the best edge-of-your-seat romantic thrillers in audio.

  The Violet Delia Foundation for Library Digital Empowerment is calling. Thalia’s walking past me, so I wave it her way. “Look,” I croak out, barely able to accept the call.

  “Answer it now,” she says, sounding nearly as excited as I am, but a lot more demanding.

  They don’t call you unless it’s good news. That’s the first fact of interviewing. But I’m so nervous it takes me two tries to actually take the call. “Hi, this is Josie.”

  “This is Violet Delia. It’s good to hear your voice again.”

  “It’s great to hear yours,” I say.

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time,” she says.

  Oh my god there’s no bad time when you’re calling. “I’m available,” I say, bright and upbeat and full of double meaning.

  I hope she’s picking up what I’m putting down. “Good, I hope you’re available for this too. I want to make you an offer.”

  My dream job. I’m about to get my dream job.

  I’m a pinball machine, whirring with a high score as she continues. “We love what you’ve done at the branch in the Upper Haight with the grant. The training that you’ve done, the work with the digitization center, and the efforts to educate patrons on media literacy are exactly why this foundation exists. And we want you to keep doing it.”

  My hand flies to my mouth. This is too much. This is too good to be true. This is everything.

  “I would love to.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. There’s only one little stipulation.”

  I tense, then say with some trepidation, “What is it?”

  “The job is in Boston.”

  51

  THE AIRPORT GOODBYE

  Wesley

  “Boston?” I repeat, like saying the name of the city will change the situation.

  “Boston,” she says, in the corridor after my game that night. A game she came to. A game we won. A game I scored a goal in.

  Then I skated over to the stands and blew her a kiss. Best night ever. Except, now it’s not.

  “Boston,” I say again, this time heavily.

  I’m too shocked to say anything more. This is the last thing I’d expected, but Josie is smiling. Like she has a trick up her sleeve. “Wes,” she whispers.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s another three-month gig. It’s only three months. I won’t even be gone that long.”

  Oh.

  Fuck yes!

  I can breathe again. “Three months is nothing. Three months will pass in the blink of an eye.”

  “Right?” She sounds so excited.

  “I’ll be traveling and playing, and you’ll be working.”

  “But not just in Boston, but a couple other libraries in New England—in Providence and Amherst too. They want me to do the job at a handful of branches. It’s a dream job,” she says, but I can hear the worry in her voice even though she’s not asking my permission to take it.

  She wants to know if I’ll wait for her. Like I’d do anything else. I grab her hand. “You’re taking it, right?”

  “You’d do long-distance?”

  “For three months? Baby, I’d do it for a year for you. Hell, I’d do it for as long as it took for you to come back. And I want you to get on that plane and know I’m waiting for you whenever you return. I promise.”

  She lets out a relieved breath, and I’m glad I could give her what she needs—certainty in us.

  The first day of the new year, I put my money where my mouth is. I drive her to the airport, walk her to security, then tuck a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear. “We’ve got this.”

  She gives me the saddest smile that’s chased with a tiny bit of hope. “It’ll go by so fast.”

  We’ve made plans to talk every night, to text, to sext, to FaceTime. I’m going to see her as soon as I can too. We’ve worked out details for a quick overnight at the beginning of February. I won’t have much time but I can squeeze it in between road trips. Then another few weeks later I’ll fly her home to me for a weekend in early March. It’ll be easy.

  So easy.

  It’ll be almost the same as having her here.

  Lies. Sweet little lies.

  But I have to keep telling them to myself. What else can I do?

  I press a tender kiss to her forehead, inhaling her cinnamon scent, letting it go to my head one more time. My chest aches. It hollows out, and I can’t stand that she’s leaving so soon after we’ve started. But I also know I’ll wait for her to return for as long as I have to.

  I brush my fingers down her cheek, along her jaw, and then lift her face so I can look into those gorgeous blue eyes. “I’m so in love with you. And I’m never going to let you forget it a single day that we’re apart.”

  Her smile is bright now. “Be careful what you wish for. You’re going to get so many letters.”

  “Bring it on.” I kiss her one more time, a poignant goodbye kiss that has to carry us through.

  When we break it, she waves sadly, then turns around and heads through security. I stay till she’s on the other side, walking farther and farther away from me.

  As I watch her go, I know with crystal clarity—I have to find a way to get her back.

  52

  HARD NIPS AND HARD DAYS

  January 1

  Dear Wesley,

  I’m writing this on the plane! And in Comic Sans MS on my tablet. You can listen to it or read it.

  By the way, did you know that real plane seats are tiny? You probably don’t because you have those cushy, fabulous seats with so much room but I like to remind you now and then of how the rest of us live.

  I’m keeping busy on the plane, trying not to miss you by writing and reviewing my notes for my first training session. It’s—gasp—on Friday.

  The best part? I’ll be teaching some high school students about the different resources we have available for research. I’m a big fan of the Internet myself. My favorite things to research? Top Five Positions for Mind-Blowing Sex. Don’t worry. I won’t share those tips.

  Here’s a fun fact for you though—we’ve tried them all. But practice makes perfect, as they say. Maybe tonight when I get to the rental apartment I’ll google how to ride your man’s cock like a wild cowgirl.

  Love,

  Your dirty girl, Josie

  My very dirty girl,

  We should have a viewing party when you get to that rental. I’ll be waiting.

  Wes

  January 13

  Dear Wesley,

  Trying to wipe the freshly fucked grin off my face as I head into my third week of work. You’re as voracious with long-distance sex as you are in person. And as I walk into the library in the freezing cold of New England—seriously, this place is Antarctica levels, and I think my nipples are perma-hard here—I’m still thinking of the things you said last night, and the way you looked. Have I mentioned I love FaceTime? They should rename it FuckTime though.

  Love,

  Josie

  Josie,

  What did you say? I was thinking of your perma-hard nipples and my brain went offline.

  Also, I’m about to get on that cushy plane for a road trip. It’s to the East Coast, but the wrong part. The big toe of Florida. If I were any closer I’d sneak off and see you. Not just because of the nips though. Because I fucking miss you every day and as much as I love FuckTime, I want the real thing.

  Love, Wes

  January 21

  Dear Wesley,

  I have an intern! She’s amazing. Her name is Penelope, she’s a mom to a ten-year-old boy, and she went back to school at age thirty-two to get her master’s degree. I adore her. She loves shoes, makeup, books, and her kid, though not in that order of course. We’re working on the digitization initiatives together and yesterday, we nerded out over metadata and how to best organize a catalog. It was heaven!

  Then, we went to a taco shop with her son (who loves hockey, but the Boston team), and I asked them to turn on your game, and I seriously went wild when my boyfriend scored a goal. Penelope said, “That’s a boyfriend goal for you.”

  That felt sort of apropos. To the game and also to you.

  Love, Josie

  Josie,

  Got back to the hotel room late and crashed hard. The thought of you watching my game is still the hottest thing ever—you better have worn my jersey. Only a few more weeks now till I can see you again. P.S. I called Thalia to see if she needed help at any more Friends of the Library fundraisers, so I’ll be serving pancakes again next weekend.

  Xo

  Wes

  Dear Wesley,

  And I love you even more for volunteering at the library. I will reward you with several extra blow jobs. Wait. That’s a reward for me, too, given how much I love your dick.

  Josie

  Josie,

  My dick loves you too, so it’s a reward for both of us.

  Wes

  February 4

  Dear Wesley,

  I feel terrible doing this but my boss asked me to lead a seminar the day you were going to come visit. She needs me to fill in because the other librarian is sick. Flu season is the worst, but I’m sturdy, and I haven’t so much as had a sniffle.

  I’m sorry! I hate long-distance. I miss you. But I passed a record shop the other day, and I popped in and asked them what someone who likes Ben Rogers, the Good Neighbors Band, and The Last Shadow Puppets would like, and well, surprise! The record shop in Hayes Valley should have dropped it off for you. It’s a consolation prize.

  Josie

  Josie,