Dearest Josephine

to start repairs tomorrow, and I’ll probably injure myself. You remember what happened the last time I played handyman. I tried to change a light bulb in our residence hall and broke my wrist. The cast was cute, though. Lots of Tom Holland stickers.
Oh, Rashad phoned me! (I almost forgot to tell you.) He left several voicemails because I wouldn’t answer his calls. The dummy thinks I stole his leather jacket.
Elias regarded his Josephine with respect. He was enthralled by her. All girls want that, I suppose—for a guy to see them and think, Yep, she’s the one. Rashad wasn’t the one for me. Not at all. I want a guy who cares more about our relationship than clothes.
I want a guy who writes to me.
The letters and novel make this place seem less vacant. I get the sense it was destined, that I was meant to visit Cadwallader and discover Elias’s writing. Go ahead. Have a laugh. I understand how reality works, but it’s fun to consider the what-ifs. What if fate, not my own breakdown, brought me here? What if Elias and I are somehow connected?
Those questions distract from the realer situation. That I’m alone in Dad’s final project. That I have no idea what I’m doing with my life. That I stole my ex-boyfriend’s jacket and am currently wearing it. Yeah, maybe I’ll cling to my imagination a bit longer.
Talk to you soon.
Josie
P.S. I miss my cat.
(Sent from iPhone)
From: Faith Moretti <Kardashian_4Life@mailbox.com>
Sent: Tuesday, June 21, 11:14 PM
To: Josie De Clare <JDeClare@mailbox.com>
Subject: Re: Elias Roch Is My New Boyfriend
Sorry for my late reply, Josie. Shopping with Noah occupied the entire day. He wanted a new desk, so we took the bus to IKEA and spent hours looking at furniture. He isn’t the most decisive person. Like, we ate lunch and dinner in the store because he couldn’t make a choice.
We left around seven with a beanbag chair and no desk.
Your emails made the day interesting. Letters? A hidden manuscript? Wow. I expected you to find something from your dad, not messages written by a Regency era gentleman—a hot one at that. I looked at the picture you sent me. Dang, Elias Roch was model quality. With that jawline, he could’ve gotten jobs in New York and Milan. (Portrait does resemble Ian Wyatt from third-period arithmetic. Maybe we should tell Ian to pursue modeling.)
Keep reading!!!
I am relieved to hear about the townhouse (and my pajamas). Let’s plan a two-week-long vacation for after we graduate. We can stay at the town home for a week, then drive up to Cadwallader. It’ll be like old times, full of dance parties and movie binges. Maybe we can even visit your dad’s grave. I’d like to go there with you.
Your mom doesn’t understand. She doesn’t see how the divorce and her leaving hurt you. A lot of parents don’t get it, and cluelessness seems worse than if they intended to cause pain . . .
Because if they hurt us on purpose, then at least we’d feel seen.
My parents treat me like a stranger nowadays. When I first returned from England, they pretended I hadn’t changed. I was still the kid with braces who collected Silly Bandz and One Direction posters. Over time they stopped trying to know me. They quit asking questions about you or Stonehill. They grew distant, and I blamed myself. I regretted accepting that scholarship. I regretted leaving them. But they’d wanted me to go. They were so proud.
Maybe they’re embarrassed because they don’t know me anymore. For example, Mama took me shopping, and I hated everything she picked out. She bought us deli sandwiches before I revealed my disgust for processed meat. I think she and Daddy gave up on me. Like, they decided I belonged to you and your dad, not the Moretti family. I’d become too modern with my impractical career dreams and fancy education. I’d lost the parts of me that came from them.
I wish they’d hurt me on purpose.
Yes, Noah and I are content. That seems a good word to describe us. I mean, we spend most afternoons together. We go to the laundromat, grocery store, and get takeout twice a week. Being in the same city has allowed us to find a routine. So yeah, we’re content—we have this adult-ish relationship that pleases our families. It’s just . . . I feel like Noah won’t say what he wants to say, and whatever he wants to say is something I don’t want to hear.
Does that make sense?
He has all these big dreams too. Like, he plans to study architecture in Barcelona and renovate a home in Jersey. His parents are rooting for us, so much so that his mom asked me about engagement rings the other day. I’m supposed to fit into Noah’s dreams. But what if his dreams don’t align with mine? Why can’t we enjoy our broke college days without planning?
I love him. I want us to last, you know, get the careers and house. My brain can’t think about that stuff now, though. After what happened in England—losing you and your dad, leaving Stonehill—I need easy. Noah understands. Maybe that’s why he won’t say what he wants to say.
We’re all living some messed-up coming-of-age story, right? Whether we’re thirteen, bra shopping with our dads, or sixty years old, we’re all trying to figure out who we are and where we fit. Nobody knows what they’re doing. We just put our best foot forward and give life a go.
You’re on the right track, Josie. Renovate the manor (or attempt it). Try not to hurt yourself. And get through the grief even if it requires Kool-Aid dye jobs and your ex’s jacket. Also, please read more of the letters, because I need updates. LOL. Maybe you were meant to find Elias’s writing. My nonno says God brings together people with similar