Page 157 of Torn

Tor,

I miss you already. Give me a few days to settle and I will write more.

I promise.

Kiss the babies for me.

I love you the most,

Kenzi

KENZI

Six months later

“How about a tiramisu tonight for dessert? The guests will love that. Last time you made it they couldn’t get enough of it,” Aunt Katherine asks cheerily over breakfast.

“That sounds great.”

Tiramisu is my favorite. When I first moved in with Aunt Katherine, I enrolled in a local cooking class to keep myself busy. I’ve learned so much, especially that making desserts is my favorite. A few weeks ago, I started baking large round sugar cookies with a white icing and then writing short inspirational quotes in colored icing on top. At first, it was really hard to write calligraphy butthen I found some food pens and thin food paintbrushes. After a while I got the hang of it, and now they look really pretty and professional. The guests love them so much that my aunt is now letting me box them up for the guests to purchase and take home with them.

My dad has driven here to visit a few times, and it’s been nice. He’s calmer. Not as worried. He’s stopped looking at me like he’s waiting for me to spontaneously combust. We walk the grounds and Aunt Katherine makes us tea and we have a lot of long talks. Some turn into debates of frustration, and others actually seem to lead us into what I like to think of as progress and hope for the future.

My grandmother calls me often. She knows the truth now. Being a romance author, she’s much more accepting of Tor and me being together, and actually seems fascinated with our story. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up writing a book inspired by us. She tells me to give my father time to calm down and get used to the idea of Tor and me as a couple. She seems to think he’ll come around.

I’m not so sure, but I hold on to the glimmer of hope.

Months of not seeing Tor has been hard. Actually,hardis not even close to describing what it feels like. It’s torturous and I cry myself to sleep almost every night as I sleep in one of his T-shirts because it smells like him. He’s always the first person I want to talk to when something happens in my life, whether it’s good or bad, or just silly. The little compass inside me always points to him, and that’s something I needed to find out on my own.

We don’t ever text or call, but we do write to each other. It’s what we decided to do. I use my fancy fountain pens and parchment paper, while he sticks to mostly notebook paper and ballpoint pens, and we send them through the mail. It’s romantic. It’shelped build patience. It’s helped us choose our words with care and truth, because writing in ink does that. There is no backspace. There are no abbreviations. We pour our hearts out to each other more than we ever have. We share our fears and dreams with each other on paper in even more depth than we did in person. There is a safety in writing, in putting the words out there and giving the recipient time to absorb, ponder, and reply.

He writes me poetry.

We fall deeper in love.

The space didn’t create distance; it only brought us closer.

At the beginning of my third month at the Inn, a limo pulled up in front of the Inn, and a chauffeur came out carrying a small rabbit cage. Inside was an adorable little black and white Lionhead bunny with a mop of fur on its head and markings that make him look like he has a mustache. He came with a note taped to the side of his cage:

This little guy came into the shelter. Apparently, he was a gift for a five-year-old boy but they didn’t realize how much work was involved. I knew he had to be yours. I’ve been calling him Wyatt.

Love you, my Angel

Tor

I fell in love with Tor all over again for gifting me with another adorable bunny.

I knew from our letters that Tor wasn’t dating. He made it clear he had no interest in doing so, and never would.

As for me, I had a few friendly conversations with the landscaper, who was good-looking, nice, and very tan. He lacked the tattoos and shaggy hair that I now lusted for, though. I agreed to have lunch with him at Aunt Katherine’s nonstop insisting, mostly to see what it would feel like to spend time with another guy. Would there be butterflies? Would I want to see him again?

Katherine urged me to find out.

Those answers were no. No butterflies came to visit.

I knew they wouldn’t.

I tried again with a twentysomething guest named Adam who stayed for two weeks while he worked on a journalism article. Adam was tall, well built, very polite, and had a nice sense of humor. I liked him more than the landscaper dude, and Adam loved my calligraphy enough to ask me to write his name out for him on a piece of canvas. And my cookies. I think he ate about fifty of my cookies. He invited me to join him for dinner twice, and the conversation flowed freely and comfortably, but it stayed platonic.