Sandy still thought of Tyler daily. She'd given up trying to banish him from her thoughts, and kept him around, a lingering ache in her heart, to remind her of what she'd had, if only for a short time. He'd kept in contact for the first months, but after a couple cryptic notes about impending danger, he stopped writing. She hadn't heard from him in six months until one day, she received a letter. It said she could come back, but he couldn't be with her. Some crap about the agency and regulations against fraternizing with suspects. She'd been so angry she threw it into the fire after reading it once. She regretted it some days, but it was probably for the best. She'd settled in comfortably in her new home in Paris, was even starting to learn some French, and had met a nice man named Roman, who she'd been seeing from time to time. The thought of returning home had lost some of its urgency, and although thinking of Tyler still hurt, she found herself happy, for the first time in months.
She was thinking of him and wishing she wasn't as she padded to her mailbox, small pieces of gravel pricking her bare feet. The envelope inside was addressed to 'Mme Sandy Brown', and the return address was Tyler's in the US. Or, what it used to be. His Aunt Bea's home. She had had received a couple letters from him after the last one, but hadn't opened any of them. Eventually, they stopped coming. She had been so strong up to now, but now, an afternoon in late August, she found tears pricking her eyes as she stared at the familiar return address. Sandy shook herself mentally, and tore open the envelope.
***
Sandy was telling him she was sorry. About Bea. She was wearing all black, thick curly hair tied back, hands clasping his. He swallowed.
"Thank you for coming." She blinked, and he realized he had no idea when she had arrived. "It really means a lot." He finished, voice thick, and her face relaxed into a smile. "Anything I can do." She said, squeezing his hand.
"Stay. I have to go back to the house. Can you stay?"
"Of course." Her eyes were suddenly bright, and she nodded quickly, before looking away.
It had been a long day, with the funeral, the greetings, speeches, and food, but it was finally over. He was back at Bea's house now, alone in the living room, Sandy was in the kitchen, putting away all of the different dishes people from the neighborhood had brought by. Tyler sank into a chair, resting his face in his hands. Sandy walked over to him, placing her hand over his. He surprised her by looking up. His face was streaked with tears, and the anguish in his eyes was plain. He tugged her toward him and she sank into his lap, wrapping her arms around him. He didn't say a word, and she kissed the side of his face, pulling him even closer to herself. They sat like that for a long time.
***
Sandy stayed for the rest of the week. She had only intended to stay a couple of days, and then go back to her life in France, but she couldn't bring herself to leave Tye. The day after the funeral, he spent the day in the backyard, just sitting, staring out at the garden. He didn't speak, but when she went and sat next to him, his arm crept around her shoulders, and she found herself leaning into him, and then, crawling into his lap. He held her close, not speaking. Finally he rested his head on her shoulder and cried.
Sandy woke up the next morning, to an empty house. The refrigerator was still full of food from the funeral, everything was as he was left it. But all of his things were gone. Sandy made a cup of coffee in the quiet kitchen, pondering what to do next. There wasn't even a note. She had tried to call his phone, but it went straight to voicemail. She paced the kitchen a couple of times, and finally realized--he didn't need her in his life, and she was a fool for thinking otherwise. She packed her things and booked the next flight out.
Once at the airport, she wondered, for a moment, if her decision was overly hasty. But if he wanted her to stay, he would have left a note. Something. She took a sip of her martini and sighed.
By the time her flight was called, she'd imbibed three martinis and a glass of wine, and was feeling decidedly better about the situation. She turned to pick up her carry on, and suddenly realized it wasn't where she had left it. A man was standing in its place. Her gaze traveled from his feet up past his broad shoulders and impressively built chest to meet familiar hazel eyes.
"Leaving?" He asked. Sandy sputtered indignantly,
"You're one to talk."
