That man again. He's been pacing up and down on the sidelines while throwing furtive glances at me. The security are keeping an eye on him, but so far he doesn't seem to be a threat. Perhaps he's just a nervous fan. If you're that nervous about meeting me in person, I wonder why you bothered to come in the first place.
An hour ticked by.
He is still pacing on the sidelines. Perhaps I should reach out to him since he can't take the initiative himself. I signalled to the guard on my left and sent him to remind the guy if he wanted an autograph or a picture, he'd need to get in line. Preferably early.
The guard returned, and the guy said he was fine. Alright, not a nervous fan...perhaps an upset one.
Another hour ticked by.
That pacing is beginning to worry me now. He's been in that spot for the last two hours, pacing uncontrollably. The signing only lasts for three hours. What did he want if it wasn't an autograph or picture? Before I could signal the guard again, the man joined the back of the line.
OK, I think I liked you better when you were pacing on the sidelines. My mind raced. What if he really was an upset fan, angry about some part of the story? The publisher didn't receive any threatening letters or emails. Fan reception is pretty good. Maybe he's not the passive type?
As I signed books, shirts, and took pictures and videos, the line grew shorter. Each time a new person approached me, I saw the man getting closer, and my heart beat faster in my chest and thundered loudly in my ears.
Then he stepped up in front of me. This is it. Let's see what you've got.
"Hello," I said as cheerfully as I could without giving myself away.I am, after all, an actress first, then a writer. Acting is second nature to me. I doubt he saw through the actor's mask I wore, because he smiled back and handed me a letter, and insisted I read it right here.
This is new. I've never had a fan hand me a letter and expect me to read it while they're in line for an autograph. People are much more conscious of their surroundings. Time is precious. You're taking away time from the ones behind you. Fine, I'll indulge him.
I opened the letter to discover it was short. Just a paragraph in the centre of the page. As I read the contents, my heart dropped. A cold swept through me that made winter feel like the height of summer. I could barely contain my tears as I read the contents over and over again.
The letter was from my husband. He'd been missing for more than ten years. They wrote him off as killed in action when they could find no trace of him or his body. I knew the letter wasn't a fake. There was a line in there that only my husband and I shared. No one knew this; it was our secret. It's our way of saying I love you.
I looked up at the man with tears running down my face and snot threatening to leave me hideously messy.
"Where is he?" I choked the words out.
"He will come to you tonight."
That was all the man said as he walked off. He wouldn't give me anything more. Didn't turn or acknowledge that I was calling out to him. He just walked away like the stranger he was. I can see why he was waiting on the sidelines. If he'd given me the letter sooner, I'd have cancelled the signing today.
I could barely hold myself up to finish the last seven who were behind him. Humans are beautiful people. None of the fans after the man asked for a photograph, though it seemed two of them came hoping to make just that memory. I promised to make it up to them the next morning.
When I got back to my hotel room, I was irritable. I couldn't sit still. I kept looking through the peephole or calling the front desk to inquire if anyone had asked to see me. The waiting was driving me crazy. Ten years. I thought my husband was dead for ten years. I mourned him all that time, and now he's alive. Every moment he wasn't here felt like a lifetime. I wanted to see him again, to touch him, to hear his heart beat.
A knock on the door scared me out of my skin. My heart stopped when I realised it could be him. I froze. Ten years. What did he look like? Was he still the same man? Did he still love me? Do I still love him? Do our vows still matter?
He knocked again. My heart started again after the third knock, and I ran to the door. When I swung it open, there he was. A few years older than he left me. His hair thick with grey and white. He had a new scar on his face. My husband, my love. Yes, I still loved him and I could see in his eyes that he still loved me. Words wouldn't come out of my mouth as I stared at him awestruck. Then he spoke two words, and I melted into his arms.
"Hello, love."
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