More than kisses, letters mingle souls.
~John Donne
***
Savannah wiped her cheeks and eyes with her hand while walking on the sidewalk. She hauled her suitcase behind her as she rummaged through her tote bag for a few tissues. If only she could find them. Her bag seemed to have developed a mechanism over the years—it effectively hid whatever she needed whenever it was required. Always.
But. What the fuck had she been thinking running like that into his arms and sobbing on his shoulder? What the actual hell? She didn't get vulnerable like that in front of just anyone. But then again, Zac wasn't just anyone, he was...Zac. She'd come to trust him more now, after the way he'd blindly given her what she'd asked for—only friendship—after that night of opening up to him, even though he wanted more from her.
Maybe he was telling her the truth. Maybe he truly was in a terrible phase when that incident had happened. Because there was no way that Zac was this one. The one she'd been around these past three months showed absolutely no semblance whatsoever with the one she'd witnessed all those years ago. He was such a changed man. The way he loved Stella. The way he would stand by Rhett if need be—she knew that—despite all that bantering they did. The way he respected his parents. The way he'd behaved, all throughout these three months, with her.
Everything told her, time and again, that she could trust him now. That he was trustworthy. That she could take a chance on him, give him a second chance.
But just now, he'd let her go. He hadn't even asked her once, to stay. He hadn't begged, pleaded, raised his voice asking her to stay. She knew she was sounding hypocritical, feeling bad about that when she'd decided she didn't want anything more to do with him. She was a mess.
She walked through the doors of Magna and barged straight into the ladies' room. She needed timeout. She just stood there, leaning against the washbasin and took a few deep breaths. She splashed water on her face and huffed. Mentally, she flipped on her work-mode switch, swearing to God that she would not, in any case, let her emotional whirlwind affect the reason she would be getting her paycheck. Nothing was getting in the way of her cooking, nothing.
She walked out of the washroom looking more like the collected Chef Reece she was required to be and less like the emotionally wrecked Savannah she had been a few minutes ago.
She commuted to Abbey's floor via the elevator. She heard the sounds before she tracked where they were coming from. Abbey and Rhett. Abbey's door was open all the way and Rhett's body was pressing her against it. His hands were everywhere on her, and hers were everywhere on him—wherever they could reach. They were practically groping each other while having their tongues deep down the other's throat.
She could think of just one thing watching both of them there:
Abbey and Rhett sitting under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Well, not under a tree, more like, against an open room door. But, come on, surely that small technical glitch could be overlooked.
Not wanting to disturb their...canoodling, she strode forward consciously avoiding making any noise. She quietly left the bags against the wall beside her bedroom door, and turning her head to the other side, she said, "I absolutely hate to interrupt your pashing—" she absolutely loved that Aussie slang word, it was so...she couldn't explain it "—but Abbey, it would do me real good if you made sure that my bags made it inside your room without missing anything." She started to scamper away, but Rhett's voice stopped her.
"Hey, wait up."
"I didn't see anything, I swear."
"You sure about that?"
"Quite."
"Yeah, I don't believe you."
"Okay, fine, I surrender." She raised both her hands up. "I might've seen a teeny-tiny bit." She pinched her index and thumb fingers to show exactly how little she'd seen.
"I don't think so." Rhett shook his head. "Anyway, privacy please?" he asked, a sly smile appearing on his lips, which was perhaps directed at her assistant.
Savannah looked over at her assistant. Obviously, Abbey was flushed cherry red. Yep, definitely directed at her.
"Okay, okay, I get it. I'm going." She started to walk away but spun around on her heels. Looking down at her feet, she said, "Uh, Abbey, I hope you still remember that you work under me. But, you know, since I'm compassionate and all that, I guess you could take some time off. You have my permission, despite clearly not asking for or wanting one. I see, you're as much your own boss as I am mine, which is...great! So yeah, time-off."
Already walking the other way, she said, "One more thing. I hope you keep your sounds low, so that, you know, you don't disturb others...and I don't end up answering for your shenanigans. Also, since you have "some" time off," she said, indicating the quotes with her hands, "you could try out a few things in the jacuzzi too. I'd like to know how it feels, 'cause I've not really tried stuff out in a bathtub before."
"Savannah!" Abbey yelled, mortified. "Shut up already. You're my boss—this is so awkward."
"So I see you remember. Okay. Anyway, bye. Have a great time. I'll see you later. And, please take my luggage in with you, I don't want it, or anything inside it, getting lost."
—x—
Zac raced back to his room. I have left something for you on the study table in your room. She. Had left something. For him. On his study table. He ran faster.
Yes. Yes, it was there. An envelope was neatly placed on his study table.
To Zac,
With loads and loads of...whatever you want. (Ha-ha!)
It was written, in perfect alignment, on the front of the envelope, in her writing. And it would be a lie if he said looking at her writing didn't make everything in him swell with emotion. He knew she was leaving, but this letter meant it was final. He couldn't do anything about it now, even if he so wanted to. His time was up.
Usually, he would have ripped the envelope open. Yeah, he was that impatient-to-open-the-envelopes kind. But he wouldn't do that this time. That envelope too, had her writing on it. There was absolutely no way he was going to tear it apart.
He carefully opened it and took out the letter from inside. The letter was huge. Really lengthy. She'd written one verbose epistle for him. He huffed. Time to read what was written inside.
To Zachary Maximilian Sifton,
Those four words made him smile. He'd guessed the first time he'd told her his full name that she'd really liked it. But he didn't know that she fancied it so much. Wow, this was new. He liked it; really, really liked it.
Okay... Here goes nothing.
First, I'll give you a brief introduction...so that, you know, in case you have forgotten who I was years down the line, if you ever happen to read it in the future, that is, this serves as a reminder. You already know this. This was all there on my resumé, or biodata, or portfolio, or whatever it is that you checked before you hired me is called. Anyway:
I am Savannah Victoria Reece. As of 2021, I am 28. I have been making this world a better place since February 14, 1993. Yep, my birthday is on Valentine's. (I'll tell...I mean, write...you a fun story regarding that too.) L.A. is my hometown. I graduated from BU and then took the Grand Diplôme course from Le Cordon Bleu, Paris. I am a freelance chef. And, as of now, my civil status is undeniably and irrefutably and painfully single. The rest is pretty trivial.
Okay. Introduction over. I'm pretty sure that would be enough of a recollection trigger. Now for the fun story.
So... My mum and dad were out on a date on Valentine's Day. They roamed around the park and did all that romantic stuff people do. And later, when my mom was hungry, and they were about to get the really delectable entrées they'd ordered, I decided I wanted out. (Yep. Impulsive and whimsical. That's me!) Naturally, being the person I am, I caused her some nasty contractions and then her water broke. In that restaurant. In. Front. Of. Too many. Other. People. (Imagine the scene that it would've caused. How mortifying.)
And thus, eventually, I came out just two minutes before V-Day ended. Terrific timing, isn't it? Yeah, I know. I'm pretty terrific and brilliant. So yeah, V-day is my B-day. (Bad joke, okay, moving on)
Uh. Fun story over. Getting back to the point. I am trying to stall...because this is difficult. Well, anyway, I have many points I want to cover in this letter. And I don't know where to start. Okay, shit.
Um, by the way, the other day when you caught me writing something secretly sitting at the bar table? Yeah, you were right. That perforated notebook wasn't my journal. Like, who would keep a freaking perforated notebook as a journal? I mean, come on, you'll want something sturdier. After all, that journal is holding all your secrets (and I have many). Get the pun? Never mind if you don't. Well, what I was writing is what you have in your hands right now. Yep, this letter.
Getting back (again) to the point.
Well, first, I really had a very great time here, with y'all. Mr. and Mrs. Sifton, Stella, Rhett and you. You guys made my stay so wonderful. I'll never be able to forget this, ever. This was one of the best, scratch that, it was easily The Best stay I had in my whole career. The love all of you showered me with, the immense care, and the way you all patiently put up with my nasty work hours. Thanks a lot for everything. You, especially.
Now, gear yourself up for some very serious talk. (Yep, I do possess the ability to be serious. That's me too.)
I don't know how to start. This is probably...no, definitely...gonna sound extremely abrupt but I won't be available for you to call me out on it, so...ha-ha! You just got played (lol).
Zac, this is about what I told you about our history. I did tell you, even though I didn't want to, because you didn't remember it, and according to me, you had the right to know. But, don't dwell on it, Zac. That's not going to achieve anything. You're punishing yourself by doing that, and though you are rather certain that that's the right thing to do, it's not.
You know, Zac, I learned this the hard way: the past is something that will keep nagging you until you confront it yourself. You can't keep running away from it. Nor can you keep going back to it. You have to face it, whenever it overwhelms you, and let it be other times.
I'm not saying it won't exercise control over you at all afterwards. It will. God knows it still does over me. Let me disclose something to you about the other day, when I first met Yvonne. Seeing her so cozy with you upset me, to say the least. And, yes, you were right, I was jealous. And, I denied it. (Yep, I'm a chicken. That's me three.)
There were two reasons for it, mainly. The first, overriding one, I'll reveal later in this letter. As for the ancillary (Yep. I have a brilliant vocab. That's me four), it was because my mind went straight to how gorgeous and flawless Yvonne looked. How she would always look perfect regardless of whatever clothes she wore. That's where my past haunts me, Zac. It always does. Looks, physical appearances, outer beauty.
The other day, when you met Dave? (Well, you didn't technically 'meet' him as much as got punched by him.) That day, did you see the woman beside him? She was Melissa, my sister-in-law. The first time I met her was one year after our fiasco took place. You know what the first thought that came into mind was? It was how pretty she was, and how I could never ever compare with her by a long shot. Dave noticed I was off, so he asked me, and I caved in and told him. I can't hide anything from him. (Yep. Transparent is me five.) And then he and Mel reassured me that I was beautiful in my unique way. That everyone is. And that outer beauty had nothing on inner beauty.
That was when I decided I gotta pick my battles with my past. It's necessary, Zac. If we continue being friends, you can't keep on revisiting what happened every time you see my face. It's not practical. You might think I'm stupid saying this, especially since I was the one that went through all of it in the first place, but I'm not. I'm saying this from experience. Don't go so hard on yourself. It. Won't. Achieve. A. Thing. So...go easy. And relax. Shit happens.
Yeah, I know you're wondering where I gathered all this Plato-cum-Socrates kinda philosophical intelligence. No, this is completely original. 100% authentic. I'm astute like that. (Yep. Smart and Philosophical. That's me six.)
Moving ahead!! *me huffing out, exasperated by myself*
What I want to tell you is why I don't want to have anything to do with you and always in one sentence. Besides not being able to trust you enough with a part of me, again, there is another major reason. I'm sorry if that, saying outright that I don't trust you enough, hurts you, but it's still one of the foremost reasons.
The second reason is that I can't give you what you want. I...simply...can't. I've gotten to know you enough to know that you're a family man. You're going to want a "wife" someday and kids later. And, I'm not really made for that. I'm not your ideal wife-material.
Look, I know where you're coming from. You grew up in an ideal "family" environment. But, in my defense, I don't have the best experiences with that term. My family shattered because of one horrible incident. One of the two people I once used to look up to and say "that's what I want" died, and the other flipped like a switch, you know? I don't really have anyone I know whom I could look up to and say "that's what I want" anymore.
What I'm saying is that, I bet there's someone better than me out there for you. Someone who can give you the life you want. Be a loving wife, a supportive partner, a wonderful mother to your kids. Someone who can be with you through heaven and hell, who can be with you always.
I can't.
My life is traveling. It's what I have made of myself. It's what I want. To travel, to see places, to learn new cuisines, to try new stuff. To be wild. To live my life. In that letter Ella wrote for me, she'd asked that of me. To live life fully. And that's what I'm gonna do. At least until I completely wear myself out or get bored of it. There will be a stop, eventually, but until then I want to enjoy myself. I'm the kind of family member who shows you their face once in two years, Zac. I'm not exactly a familial person.
So...what I am asking you to do is to forget about me as the person you once loved, (forgetting me completely also works) and open yourself up to falling in love again. You might feel that single-life is more than amazing and supremely convenient. You know, getting to do things your way, not having anyone to justify to does seem pretty nice. It, however, if you ask me, is not.
You and I, well, we're missing something. A huge part that we don't have yet, but once we do, it'll complete the jigsaw we are. It's a missing piece, Zac, and you need one as much as the next person does, to complete your puzzle, to know what you could be as a whole. I don't have that in the cards for me anytime soon, but you could. Which is why I am asking you to put yourself out there and find someone. Someone who can love you the way you deserve to be loved. Someone who can give you the life you want.
You need to give yourself the life you deserve.
(Yep. The next up and coming Socrates. That's me seven.)
And, getting to the last point I wanted to cover in this letter. The first and most important reason as to why I was jealous.
I LOVE YOU. I think I never stopped. Perhaps, back then, it was nothing more than a stupid case of infatuation. But being around you for the past so many days, I started to love the person you'd become. Despite my constant denial, I do. I still do. Which is why I cannot possibly see you like this, hanging halfway, waiting for me to cave in. And, because I know I can't meet you halfway, I'm telling you to move on and get a life, Zac. Please, humor me.
I'm proud of you, Zac, of the person you've become. And I genuinely thank you for the restraint you've shown around me ever since I confided in you that night. You stopped yourself from making things difficult for me. You took a step back just because I'd asked you to. I'm genuinely grateful to you for that. Thank you.
Last time you unknowingly pushed me away. (Do not blame yourself, I was just making a statement. I know it is coming off as a tad accusative, and that's totally on a lack of better wording.) This time, however much you want to, don't come after me, Zac. It's in the best interest for both of us.
Last but not the least. (How cliché.) The next time I see you, whenever that is, I would really like to see a woman with you. I won't lie and say it won't hurt, seeing you with her, whoever the lucky girl would be, because it will. But, at the same time, it'll give me mental peace. My conscience will feel better knowing that you put yourself out there and got what you deserved. And, if you're comfortable, please keep me regularly updated on what's hot. Only if you are okay with it, I would totally understand if you didn't want to continue keeping contact with me, because...you know why. If we do come across each other tonight, let's try hard and keep it stringently professional, not even platonic. It'll be simpler to say the final goodbye that way.
Anyway, this marks the end of my letter. The first and last one you'll ever get from me, I guess. All right.
Have a good life, Zac. And, I'm hoping to find your letter in my mailbox someday.
With lots and lots of love,
Savannah.
P.S. — I was listening to Havana by Camila Cabello a few days ago, and a thought popped into my mind. Savannah and Havana are rhyming. How amazing would it be if the song was Savannah and not Havana. (The tune fits, I tried it.) After all, both are places. Her heart could as well be in Savannah as it was in Havana. Think about it, Zac. How fabulous! (Yep. Weird. That's me eight, and last.)
He didn't realize when he came to be sitting on the edge of his mattress, eyes filled with unshed tears. Or even some flowing down his cheeks, he didn't know. The last he remembered he was standing by his desk carefully opening the envelope.
He pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes.
The door creaked open. He didn't need to look up to know who it was.
"She left, Spence. And I let her go."
He felt her sit down next to him. She put a hand on his shoulder, to comfort him.
"Look, considering I still don't like you much, I shouldn't be helping you, but I can see how much you love her and how much she loves you too. Listen to me, leaving was her choice. Letting her go was yours. And only you can change that. You understand?"
Yes. Yes, he definitely got the message.
He was gonna change his decision. He wasn't gonna let her go without a fight. He was gonna fight. For her.
It was fucking showtime.
—x—
Soooooo. How did y'all find the letter? Oh man, was it difficult drafting it. Getting all the feeling and emotions just right proved to be such a tedious task, I tell you. But I love how it had turned out.
Anyway. Five more chapters to go. That reminds me, how do y'all feel about a few bonus chapters? I mean, I haven't done it before... so I don't know. Just let me know in the comments.
If you liked Chapter 21, please vote and comment.
Thank you!!
Until next time...