Chapter 15: His Handwriting

I should have put it back.

I stood in the dark with my dress half zipped and the notepad in my hand, and I unfolded it.

It was Brody's handwriting, small and slanted, in blue ink that had pressed through the paper.

The date at the top was the Saturday I left.

At the bottom was the name of the island airport, and a time that had been written, crossed out, and written again.

I read it by the light from the window.

Maddie.

I don't know your last name.

I don't know your number, or what city you fly home to, or who you were running from.

I know you take your coffee with too much milk and pretend you don't.

I know you left your sandals by the door and went barefoot rather than wake me.

If I ever find you, I'll tell you my name first and let you be angry about it.

Don't be gone. Please.

I read it twice.

My eyes had gone hot, and I didn't try to stop them.

For two weeks I had told myself a story that fit.

A man with a hotel chain and a reputation had seen the runaway bride on every screen in America.

He had decided to enjoy the view.

The man who wrote this one hadn't known which woman I was.

He had known only that I'd left.

"You found it."

I turned.

Brody stood by the chair with his shirt hanging open and his hair wrecked, and his face had gone very still.

"I wanted a pen," I said. My voice wasn't working. "I didn't mean to..."

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