Mrs. Matched | Complete

Chapter Twenty-Nine

I must have fallen asleep on the couch because the next thing I knew Chris was gently shaking my shoulder. "Hey, Aubrey. Do you wanna just stay here tonight? I meant to ask you if you wanted to head home or not."

"I think we should stay. Is that supper?"

He nodded and hopped up. "Yeah, I just made some spaghetti."

"It's great. Thanks. I just don't think I can get up."

"I'll grab it for you." He kissed my cheek and jogged toward the kitchen. He wasn't even there when both of our phones started going haywire with notifications.

"I thought we didn't get service up here."

Chris shrugged and brought me my phone. "We usually don't."

One look at the phone tells me what caused the flurry of notifications. Our final Match Made task has arrived. I gasped and threw my phone across the couch.

Chris sighed and we both stared at each other, unwilling to open the message. "I thought we had five business days."

"I guess... I guess they didn't mean it. We could just not open it. No need to rush to finish, right?"

I had to admit I was a little sad to see it arrive so soon. I was really enjoying being away from it all and a small part of me felt like the notifications were just interrupting something that was going superbly.

"I mean, we should probably read it, right?"

Neither of us moved to open the notification but we couldn't put it off forever.

"I guess we have to?"

"Yeah." He sighed and then slid open the notification. His eyes flitted across the screen for a few seconds. Then he handed me my phone. "I think you're going to want to read this one yourself."

My eyes scanned the paragraph of text on my screen but nothing made any sense. Am I reading this right? I carefully read through the message a second time. "We have to write each other a love letter?"

I don't know why I'm so surprised, as we are supposed to be learning to be married to each other, but for some reason this seems outrageous.

"I guess so. And it seems we need to send them a copy so they can determine if we need any follow up appointments. Great."

I groaned into the pillow I was holding. "I haven't known you long enough to write a good letter."

He laughed. "I haven't known you any longer. I'm sure they know that. Surely we can make something sound good enough that they won't follow up."

He must have sensed my skepticism because he added, "Okay, let's write them and then we can read each other's letters before we send them to make sure they're good enough to send to Match Made. How's that?"

I mean, I'm going to have to show him eventually. And whatever I write is going to have to be good enough to get them off our backs. But he'll read it no matter what I do. I guess I might as well agree to the deal so we can make sure the letters seem realistic.

"Yeah. I guess that's the best way to make sure we write something good enough."

He made his way to a nearby desk and started rummaging through a drawer muttering about a pen.

"Are we starting now?" My chest tightened and the pain from my ankle returned to full force.

"Is there a reason to wait?" His voice was soft and level, curious rather than accusatory.

Do I tell him? How do I tell him? Several seconds pass but it feels like hours before he says, "Would you like me to bring you some paper?"

"Well, according to my paramedic"-- I gestured to him--"I'm not allowed to walk on my ankle or get up by myself. So, if we're writing a letter, I would like you to bring me some paper."

While he went about bringing me something to write on, I moved my foot so it was elevated on the couch rather than the coffee table, because I could use the back of the couch to balance the ice while I wrote the note. When he came back with a notepad and pen, I took them from him and settled into the corner. "Thank you. I'll get to work, I guess."

I looked up at him, willing him to ask me not to do it. But why would he do that? I'm stuck on the couch anyway, might as well work.

He didn't say anything, making his way back to the desk to work on his letter. I stared down the blank page in front of me and tried to think of what to write. I remembered what my mother said when she taught me to lie.

'It is best,' she had told me, 'when you are telling a lie, to keep it as close to the truth as possible. That way, it is easier to remember.'

In that moment, her advice seemed solid, so I tried to write as much of the truth as I could. I put my pen on the paper and began.

Dear Christopher,

I always hoped I would find someone to spend my life with, but I never expected I would find it at twenty-five. And I never dreamed I would find it with you.

You are a kind and caring man whose dream to be a husband and father comes through in every one of your actions. Your careful consideration of the house you designed, your love of fancy cuisine, and your attention to my needs have all been appreciated more than you could ever know.

From the moment I first saw you, I knew I would be comfortable in your presence. Each moment I have spent with you has helped me to learn more about myself and grow in my understanding of what it means to be married. I am better for having known you.

One day, when I'm old and gray, I will sit on the porch swing and tell my grandchildren about our story. About why it started and how it grew. And when I do, I will tell them of your kind and generous heart and your ability to love without ceasing.

I will tell them how you cared for me even when I didn't want to be cared for, and how you gave up everything you ever wanted just to make me happy.

And when they ask about you, I will show them your picture. The one I took today on the top of your favourite mountain. I will show them what it means to dream and what it means to live a life worth having.

I will forever be grateful for this experience and for getting to know you. And I hope our lives turn out just like a fairy tale.

Yours,

Aubrey.

I looked down at my page in complete shock. The words were all true. Every last one. Did I love Chris not just as a friend but maybe as a husband? How would that even look? My head was spinning atop my shoulders and I had to close my eyes to steady myself.

When I open them, I risk a glance over at Christopher only to find he is still working. To fill the time, I decided to copy the letter out more neatly onto a new piece of paper. I was so focused on completing the letter that I almost didn't see when Chris looked over at me and smiled.

Maybe we could make this work after all. Curse my parents for being right.