Page 103 of What I'm Looking For

Yours,

Will

His cursive is beautiful, but I need a PhD in English to understand this letter. I can’t even tell what’s Shakespeare and what’s Will. Whoever’s words they are, the message is not clear.

If he spoke them aloud, I’d probably understand.

One word stands out loud and clear, though:Farewell.

He’s saying goodbye.

I squeeze my eyes shut, press my lips together.

Just do it, Bishop.

Carefully, I set the paper on the hall table, smooth it out, bend to tie my shoes, grab my keys and walk out the door.

Once I’m biking alongside the river, the rhythmic pumping of my legs settles me down.

For about two minutes.

Never doubt I love.

Does he love me? Or is he just talking about love in general?

Journeys end in lover’s meeting.

I guess we’re the lovers, but what’s the journey? Didn’t he say I took his heart when I left? But I’m only across town. Can’t he just call? Or come over?

Apparently not, because only God knows when we’ll see each other again.

Stupid Shakespeare.

Oops. I think I said that out loud. Maybe really loud, as two people having a romantic picnic on the grass are looking at me funny.

I wave as I pedal past. “Sorry! Just talking to myself!”

I shake my head to rid it of the chatter. Unfortunately, this makes my bike wobble, and I have to brake and drop a foot to the ground to keep from falling over. Since I’m stopped anyway, I pull my water bottle out of its rack.

When I tip my head back to take a sip, my eye catches on a familiar structure peeking through the trees. Could it be that I’ve steered myself to Shakespeare Boston? I really only saw the stage from the other side, but I’m pretty sure that’s what I’m seeing just over the rise. Perhaps my body knows what it’s doing. It seems to have taken over in any case, because I find myself close enough to hear voices and see a corner of the stage.

An oh-so-familiar voice reaches in, grabs my heart and pulls it up to my throat.

Will’s.

He’s shouting at another man. Something about a rat. Maybe a cat. He pulls a knife—no, two knives. Lunges. Blades flash as he and another guy fly around the stage, dodging and weaving.

Someone steps between them. The first guy uses the distraction to flip around and stab Will.

He screams in pain. Doubles over. Chaos.

Will staggers, shouting. Stumbles. The stupid guy who got in the way catches him. Will’s voice is hoarse when he yells at him. Then he’s pressing a hand to his side to cough up blood.

I can’t breathe.

Will’s on the ground, his body convulsing.

Blood roars in my ears. I stumble back, get caught by a tree and land heavily on the ground, face in my hands. Sobs engulf me. I squeeze my head.

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