On a Wednesday by Whitney G.
Courtney: Now
Present Day
Itook a seat across from Kyle on a private plane, watching the workers roll his luggage below. Even though his agent had intended for the flight to depart at eight thirty, the scattered rainstorm delayed takeoff for another hour.
The two of us had shared a bottle of wine and a custom tray of dessert while the pilot chatted with air traffic control.
“I need to ask you something, Kyle,” I said.
“On or off the record?” He raised his eyebrow. “You have ownership in the media now, so I’m not sure I can trust you.”
I laughed and tossed a straw at his face. “Off the record.”
“I’m listening.”
“Did you really write me a ‘shit ton’ of letters?” I asked. “Or, did you get drunk one night and imagine that you did?”
“A bit of both.” He laughed. “I mean, I definitely remember writing you with perfect clarity. The same clarity that I remember giving you a ride freshman year.”
“So, it didn’t happen.”
We both laughed.
“Well, I do remember writing 687 Salt Lane, Apartment 50 over and over. Maybe I should’ve added an ‘A’ or something, but the postal guy said that I didn’t have to,” he said, shrugging. “Then he said everything should’ve gotten forwarded for at least a year.”
I dropped my wine glass to the floor, shattering it to pieces.
The flight attendant rushed over, and Kyle grabbed my hand.
“Court?” He squeezed it. “Court, what’s wrong? Why are you looking like that?”
“How often did you write me?”
“Not that often,” he said, shrugging. “Maybe once a month when we stopped talking.”
“How often, Kyle?” I knew he’d remember anything number-related, and he definitely had the right address.
“I wrote you at least fifty-seven times.”
“That’s more than once a month.”
“It’s less than how often you crossed my mind.” He let my hand go and moved next to me. “Did I write you after you’d already moved?”
“No.” I shook my head, feeling a sudden pang in my chest. “You had Graham’s address. We switched apartments when I complained about the lack of a view … He never gave me your letters, Kyle.”
“You had to have gotten at least one.”
“No.” I swallowed. “Not a single one.”