53 Letters For My Lover

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This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products and locales referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Copyright ©2014 by Leylah Attar | All Rights Reserved |

Cover illustration and book design by Leylah Attar

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ISBN: 978-0-9937527-1-1 (kindle)

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

PITCH73 PUBLISHING

Toronto, Canada

June 18th, 1995

The third time I
see him, twelve years after that hot, sticky night in July, he’s kissing Jayne. My hand freezes on the door knob as I watch their silhouettes embrace against the brilliant arch of the window. I step back, not wanting to interrupt this private moment between bride and groom. But something keeps me riveted. Matt doesn’t make the air crackle like this. He doesn’t send long, dark tentacles, tempting me out of the shadows and into the light. No, not Matt. Troy. Troy Heathgate, kissing my best friend minutes before her reception.

And just like that, I’m at war—two sides of me charging down the hills, clashing and clanging in a valley about as wide as the sliver of the door I’m peeking through. I want to barge in, to rescue Jayne from the captivating black-magic knight that’s him, but I waver at the threshold, clinging to a tattered banner of self-preservation.

The dusty sneakers and sweatshirt are gone. A formal jacket outlines shoulders that are impossibly broader. The tousled, shaggy hair has been tamed with a suave, sophisticated cut. All the same raw-boned ruggedness, poured into a hard, polished presence. I flinch, dropping my hand from the door.

This. This foolish, heady pounding of my heart. This is what destroyed Maamaan and Baba, what sent Hossein running, and left us scattered like four points on a compass. I grip the gold band around my finger. I will never let this darkness touch my home.

I watch as Troy’s fingers circle the back of Jayne’s neck, weaving into her hair. He pulls her face away and says something in her ear. For a second, she stares at him. Then she blinks and slaps him hard across the face. The resounding smack barely affects him. Amusement lurks in the corners of his mouth as he takes the hand that lashed out and kisses it. Then he straightens his jacket and heads for the exit.

I duck behind the door, squeezing myself flat against the wall as six feet of solid male whips by me, leaving the unmistakable blast of power and expensive cologne. His shoes click across the smooth marble floor as he walks into the banquet hall, cool, confident and completely unruffled. I lean my head back against the wall and let my breath out.

“Shayda? Is that you?” I hear Jayne calling.

Damn. I pull myself together and enter the room.

“You have no idea what just happened.” She engulfs me in a hug.

“I saw. But now’s not the time.” I turn her around so she can see her mum and dad approaching.

“Sweetheart.” Elizabeth clasps her daughter’s hands. “It’s almost time.”

“I can’t believe it.” Bob hooks his arm around Jayne and pulls her in affectionately. “My little girl.”

I swallow, wishing I could conjure up some memory of my parents from my wedding day.

“Dad!” says Jayne, wriggling away from him. “You’re ruining my hair.”

“Me?” Bob laughs. “Looks like someone already beat me to it.” He tugs a piece that’s sticking out.

Jayne and I exchange a look. We know who’s to blame.

“It’s barely noticeable,” I say. “But we need to retouch your lipstick.”

“I’ll get it.” Elizabeth reaches for Jayne’s purse.

“And I better get back to our guests,” says Bob. “Care to join me, Shayda?” He offers me his arm.

I look at Jayne.

“I’m fine.” She reassures me. “You two go inside.”

Bob leads me through the elegantly appointed reception hall, to the family table.

“Are we the only ones here?” he asks Ryan. All the other tables are filled with people, talking and mingling.

“For now,” says Ryan. “Ellen’s in the back, doing whatever maids of honor do. I thought it’d be you for sure, Shayda.”

Decked out in a suit, Jayne’s brother is the splitting image of their father.

“I’m not one for crowds or speeches,” I reply. “Your wife saved the day. How was the drive from Ottawa?”

“Great. The kids slept most of the way. We’re paying for it now.” He points to the two girls spinning circles on the empty dance floor.

“Wow.” I laugh. “They’ve grown.”

“They certainly have. What about yours?”

“Well, Natasha is now eleven and Zain is nine.”

“You didn’t bring them?”

“They’re with my mother.”

“And Hafez?”

“He’s out of town,” I reply.

“Still the same, crazy hours?”

“Still the same.”

“Shayda, have you met Ryan’s college buddy?” asks Bob. “Where is he?” He looks around. “Hey, Troy. Troy!”

No. Please no. But he’s already waving him over.

I stare at the monogrammed favor box on the table. “J & M” it says, in cursive silver. The hair on the back of my neck stands when Troy Heathgate stops behind my chair.

“Troy, meet Jayne’s friend, Shayda. Also my brilliant protégée. She started off as my assistant and is now one of my top realtors.”

I paste a cardboard smile and stand.

“Dad, they’ve already met,” says Ryan. “Canada Day fireworks. Remember, Troy?”

“Yes.” Something flickers across those brilliant pacific blues. “I remember.” His smile falters the tiniest bit before he takes my hand.

Our palms barely connect before we pull back, like we’ve touched a live wire.

“Troy has just moved back from New York,” Bob is saying...

It doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter what anyone is doing or saying. I wish Troy Heathgate would stop looking at me like that. Time has intensified his gaze into a laser beam that zaps hazy memories of him into a cloud of smoky grey. Poof. Gone. Dissolved. Disintegrated. What chance do black and white rainbows have against full, blazing technicolor?

“They’re here, everyone!” Elizabeth sweeps in.