1 Eight years of love, and every time I visited a new city, I sent a postcard to Nate Holloway. I never wrote grand declarations of love. Instead, I wrote one simple thing I wanted to do with him. Watching the sunset by the dunes. Having breakfast in the historic district. Seeing a real, heavy snowfall in the North. He kept those cards in a vintage tin box in his study. By now, they filled two entire layers. This year, Nate finally promised to finish the very last one with me. But a week before we were set to leave, he announced he was joining a celebrity travel show called The Perfect Pair—as the partner for Serena. “She’s been preparing for this show for months,” he told me, his voice flat and practical. “They can’t just swap her out at the eleventh hour.” I looked at him, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. “And our promise?” Nate was silent for a beat. Then, he let out a sharp, impatient breath. “To be honest, Elena, I haven’t actually read any of those postcards.” My heart stuttered. “My assistant filed them away for me,” he continued. “Don’t make this sound like some grand betrayal. It’s a few pieces of cardstock.” At the show’s press conference, the host asked Nate who his dream travel partner would be. Serena stood just below the stage, looking up at him with expectant eyes. Nate took the microphone without a second’s hesitation. “We met far too late in life,” he said, his voice echoing through the hall. “So I want to make up for every second of lost time.” The room erupted in applause. I was sitting in the front row, my fingers trembling as I gripped the final postcard. I had intended to give it to him today. It read: “If we don’t go this year, I won’t wait for the next.” After the cameras stopped rolling, Nate caught me backstage. He frowned, noticing my pale face. “Why do you look like that? Serena is just a work partner. I’ll be back as soon as the season wraps.” But the shoot was ninety days. Ninety days from now would be our eighth anniversary. He wanted me to wait until then to even discuss our wedding. I thought about that tin box, filled with messages he had never bothered to open. It didn't feel like a collection of promises anymore. It felt like a mountain of evidence of a one-sided life. It wasn't that the cards had been lost in the mail. It was that for eight years, the recipient had never actually been waiting for them. “The production crew needs to take the tin.” Nate’s assistant, wearing white gloves, leaned over the desk to pick up the box. I slammed my hand down on the lid. “Who authorized this?” “I did.” Nate stood in the doorway, his press pass still dangling from his wrist. “The show needs a ‘recurring motif’—something to thread the ninety days together. These cards are perfect.” The metal edge of the box bit into my palm. “These cards are about us, Nate.” “There’s nothing private in there. Just names of places.” Serena stepped out from behind him, clutching a production schedule. “Please don’t misunderstand, Elena. The director just wants me to pull a random card at each stop. Then Nate and I will fulfill the ‘wish’ on the card. The audience will love the sentimentality.” She already knew the "gameplay." And Nate claimed he hadn't read a single one. I didn't move my hand. “Did you read them, Serena?” She bit her lip, glancing at Nate. “Was I not supposed to? The assistant said it was fine. I only looked at the top few.” “I told her she could,” Nate said, walking toward the desk. “They were sent to me. I get to decide what happens to them.” “If I give someone a gift, can’t I take it back when it’s treated like trash?” “Elena, don’t start a scene before we even film.” He always used my full name when he was losing his patience. Serena looked down at her schedule, shifting her arm. On her wrist was a crimson braided cord bracelet. I had made that for Nate years ago. It had a tiny, worn brass clasp. I stared at her wrist. “Is that bracelet part of the ‘show’ too?” Serena instinctively covered it. “Nate said the reception in the mountains is spotty. He gave it to me for good luck. If it bothers you, I’ll take it off right now.” She fumbled with the clasp but didn't actually undo it. “Leave it,” Nate said, placing his hand over hers. “It’s just a string. She’s not going to be petty about it.” But I was petty. Or maybe I was finally just tired. That cord had lived on his keychain for seven years because he’d said wearing it was "childish." Now, it was on her wrist. The assistant stood awkwardly by the desk. “Mr. Holloway, the director is waiting for the ‘unboxing’ shots.” Nate gently pried my hand off the lid and picked up the tin. The bottom scraped against the mahogany desk with a dull, heavy thud. I stepped in front of the door. “You can do the show. You can give her the bracelet. But you are not taking the cards.” He studied me for a long moment. Then he handed the tin back to the assistant and grabbed my wrist, pulling me into the hallway. “Elena, after the show is over, I’m taking you to Cape Point.” That was the destination on the very last card. I looked up at him. “You read it?” “I read it.” “Then you know what I wanted to do there?” “Watch the sunrise,” he said, his voice softening. He was right. For a split second, a foolish spark of hope flickered in my chest. Maybe the "I never read them" comment was just a defensive lie from the press conference. He pulled two train tickets from his wallet and pressed them into my hand. “The morning train, ninety days from now. I’ve already booked it. This time, nothing changes.” The paper was warm from his pocket. The destination: Cape Point. I checked the date twice before I finally stepped aside. Serena followed the assistant out. As she passed me, she paused. “Don’t worry, Elena. I’m just borrowing the cards for ninety days. When we get to the Cape Point episode, I’ll make sure Nate leaves the very last one for you.” “Cape Point is part of the show?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. Nate gripped the door handle. “The director changed the finale location. It’s actually better this way—I can scout it out for us first.” “Then what are these tickets for?” “They’re still valid. We’ll go again after we wrap.” He reached out and took one of the tickets back from me. “Serena gets motion sickness. I’m going to use this one to reserve her a specific seat for the production travel. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow.” The door shut in my face. I looked down at the remaining ticket in my hand. The passenger name wasn't mine. It was Serena’s. 2 “The assistant booked the wrong name. It’s not a big deal, Elena.” Nate dropped a new ticket onto the dining table. The destination was still Cape Point, but the date had been pushed back by three months. I didn't touch it. “Three months from now is hurricane season.” “Then we’ll reschedule.” “You said ninety days.” “The shoot needs pick-up shots. We can’t lock in a date yet.” Nate’s mother, sitting at the head of the table, pushed a plate of grilled shrimp toward Serena. “Work isn’t a game, Nate. It’s generous of you to offer her a make-up trip at all. Elena can’t expect the world to revolve around a postcard.” This dinner was supposed to be my send-off. Tomorrow, I was leaving for the Pacific Northwest to archive a series of old travel journals. Mrs. Holloway had insisted I come over tonight, saying it was "family time." Now, my usual seat was occupied by Serena’s pill organizer. Her cardigan was draped over the back of the chair. “Elena, dear, sit over there,” Mrs. Holloway said, pointing to a small chair near the kitchen door. “Serena’s digestion is delicate; she needs to be close to Nate so he can look after her.” Nate began peeling a shrimp. He did it with practiced precision—snapping the tail, then sliding the vein out. I was the one who taught him that. I used to be terrified of the sharp shells. He dropped the clean meat into Serena’s bowl. “Nate, stop,” Serena giggled. “Elena is leaving tomorrow. You should be taking care of her.” “She can feed herself,” Nate said without looking up. Mrs. Holloway smiled. “They’ve been together eight years, Serena. They don’t need all that fuss. You’re the guest. Don’t be shy.” I pulled out the chair by the kitchen. The table leg pressed against my ribs. It was so cramped I could barely move my elbows. Nate glanced at me once, then swapped my water for a bowl of soup. “No chives, just the way you like it. Drink it while it’s hot.” It was wild mushroom bisque, my favorite. The small porcelain spoon rested against the rim. He remembered that I only liked using the short-handled spoons. I took a sip. The temperature was perfect. “What time do you leave tomorrow?” he asked. “Seven in the morning.” “I’ll drive you.” “Doesn’t the crew meet at six?” “I’ll drop you at the station first, then head to the set.” His hand found my knee under the table, squeezing gently through my skirt. “Elena, I know you’re upset. When I get back, we’ll finally do it. We’ll have the wedding.” I gripped the spoon. “Do you actually want to get married, Nate?” “It’s been eight years. Who else would I marry?” Mrs. Holloway set her fork down with a sharp clack. “We can talk about the wedding, but the public announcement has to wait. The show is in its peak promo cycle. We can’t have Serena looking like the 'other woman' in the press.” Serena immediately pushed her bowl away. “Mrs. Holloway, it’s fine. Maybe I should just quit the show. My health might not even hold up for ninety days anyway.” Her pill box tipped over, spilling white tablets across the tablecloth. Nate stood up instantly to help her gather them. “The doctor said you need to stay calm,” Nate said, his voice laced with genuine worry. “Don’t joke about quitting.” “But Elena doesn't like me being here.” “She didn't say that.” He snapped the pill box shut and turned to me. “Elena, tell her.” Two pairs of eyes bore into me. I pushed the soup bowl away. “I don't like my life being sidelined. That doesn't mean I don't like her.” Mrs. Holloway’s face darkened. “It’s a seat at a table, Elena. Serena saved Nate’s life during that rockfall. She’s fragile. What exactly is it costing you to be a little bit graceful?” The rockfall. Every time Serena needed something, someone brought up the time she pulled Nate out of the way of a slide on a hiking trip years ago. “I can give up a seat,” I said quietly. “I can’t give up being his fiancée.” Nate’s brow furrowed. “Nobody is asking you to.” “Then announce the engagement tomorrow. Before the show airs.” Serena gripped the edge of the table. Nate’s mother beat him to the punch. “The show is branded as a 'Perfect Pair' romance. You want Nate to blow up the production and ruin Serena’s reputation just for a status update?” “I just want the truth.” “The truth is that I’m marrying you,” Nate said, his hand heavy on my shoulder. “What’s the difference if the world knows today or in three months?” I looked at him. “There’s no difference for you. There is for me.” He picked up the new train ticket, folded it, and tucked it into my coat pocket. “Wait ninety days. Just stop bringing it up.” After dinner, he actually did drive me home. He even came inside and made me a bowl of noodles. No cilantro, one perfectly poached egg. He handed me the chopsticks. “You haven’t eaten since the table. You’ve been doing that since we were twelve—starving yourself when you’re stubborn.” I stayed silent. We grew up on the same block. He knew every one of my triggers, and he knew that a simple bowl of noodles was usually enough to make me stay. Halfway through the meal, his phone rang. It was the director. “Bind the cards according to the route? Yeah, that’s fine. Just don't lose them.” I snapped my head up. “You can’t bind them.” He covered the receiver. “It’s just a hole punch and some twine, Elena. It’s for the shots.” “The paper will tear.” “I’ll buy you a new set after the show.” I put the chopsticks down. “There is no ‘new set’ of those cards, Nate.” Nate didn't answer me. He spoke into the phone. “Go ahead with the plan.” The assistant arrived ten minutes later with a confirmation slip. At the bottom, it stated that the owner of the materials authorized the production to cut, punch, and style the ninety-six postcards. Nate signed it and capped the pen. I reached for the paper, but he had already handed it back to the assistant. 3 “The production needs you on-site.” The director slid a crew badge across the table. It labeled me as a Route Consultant. I didn't touch it. “I agreed to provide my journals and data for the Oregon Coast segment. I didn't agree to be on camera.” “You won’t be,” Serena said, sitting close to Nate. “There’s a road closure at Cape Point. You’re the only one who knows the local guides. If you don't come, the finale is dead.” “Change the location,” I said. The director shook his head. “The network already teased the Cape Point finale. We’re locked in.” Nate took the badge and hung it around my neck. “It’s only for seven days, Elena. Just help Serena navigate the final stretch.” The plastic badge felt heavy against my collarbone. “That stretch was my gift to you, Nate.” “Which makes you the expert.” “You’re asking me to lead her through my own wishes?” “It’s a job,” Nate said firmly. The director flipped through a binder. “Ms. Brooks, you’ve already been paid for the consulting. You signed off on the route. If you walk now, you’re stalling a crew of fifteen people. Don't make this harder for Nate.” I had only signed off on the data. But somewhere in the fine print, "on-site support" had been added. Serena reached out to touch the badge. “Forget it. I’ll walk it myself. If something happens to me, it’s nobody’s fault.” Nate blocked her hand. “You had a flare-up last time we were in the mountains. I’m not letting you risk it.” He looked at me. “Elena, she saved my life. I’m not going to gamble with her safety just because you’re in a mood.” “What about my feelings, Nate?” “You’re family. You should be the one who understands me best.” Because you’re not an outsider, you don’t need to be cared for. He had used that excuse for years. I ripped the badge off and set it on the table. “I’m not going. I don't accept this.” Nate didn't get angry. Instead, he reached into his bag and pulled out an old camera. It was a vintage silver Leica with a tiny piece of blue tape on the side. My camera. The one I’d lost two years ago. “I got it fixed,” he said. I took it, my thumb brushing the power button. The roll of film I’d never finished was still inside. Two years ago, it had been water-damaged, and every shop said it was a lost cause. Nate must have hunted down a specialist. “When did you find it?” “Six months ago.” “Why didn't you tell me?” “I wanted to give it to you at Cape Point.” He put the badge back in my palm. “Take it with you. When the cameras stop, I’ll send everyone else away. It’ll just be us for the last card.” The screen flickered to life. For a second, my resolve crumbled. It was only seven days. Maybe after the show, he really would come back to me. I put the badge back on. Serena picked up her water glass, stopping just before she took a sip. “Nate, is this the camera you asked my cousin about? The one who specializes in old optics?” Nate nodded. “Yeah. He did a great job.” “No wonder he sent it to my place,” Serena said, leaning back. “I actually tested it out with a few rolls. The clarity is amazing.” I froze. I scrolled through the digital gallery. The most recent photo was of Serena standing by a window, wearing one of Nate’s white button-downs. The next was of her curled up on a sofa, covered in the grey cashmere throw I’d given Nate for his birthday. The timestamp was the night before the press conference. “You were at his house?” “We were going over the schedule,” Serena said smoothly. “I spilled coffee on my shirt, so he lent me one. Don't overthink it, Elena.” Nate took the camera and deleted the photos. “The director and the assistant were there, too. We weren't alone.” “And the blanket?” “She fell asleep. I just threw it over her.” The blanket I’d bought him when I first moved in. He’d hated the color, but he’d never let the housekeeper take it away. Now, it was just something to "throw over" someone else. I took the badge off again. Nate grabbed my hand. “I got your camera fixed. What more do you want?” “I want out.” “Stop being childish.” “I’m not going to the Cape, and I’m not waiting for a wedding.” He looked at me for a few seconds, then actually laughed. “Another breakup threat, Elena?” “This isn't a threat.” “Fine.” He shoved the camera into my bag. “We’ll talk when you get back from the PNW. For now, do your job.” The director handed me the new production book. The cover was glossy. Nate & Serena: 100 Wishes at Cape Point. Inside, tucked into the back sleeve, was my final postcard. Its four corners had been neatly clipped off to fit the frame. 4 “The last card doesn't go on camera.” I pulled the postcard out of the binder. The postmark for Cape Point was already obscured by a production sticker. The director signaled the cameraman to hold. “Elena, this is the finale. Everything is set.” At the end of the Cape Point boardwalk, a rustic wooden wall had been erected. Ninety-five of my postcards had been punched with holes and strung on twine. The ocean breeze whistled through the holes, making the paper clatter like dry leaves. Serena, in a flowing white dress, stood by the wall, waiting for Nate. I clutched the final card. “You’ve already ruined the others. This one stays with me.” Mrs. Holloway stepped out of the production trailer. “The cards were a gift to Nate. They’re his property. We aren't stopping production because of a tantrum.” The director leaned in, whispering, “The network executives are on-site. If we don’t have the final card, the whole narrative arc collapses.” Serena walked over to me, looking pained. “Elena, I’ll only read the location. I won’t read the message on the back. Okay?” “No.” “Then you read it,” she said, handing me her microphone. “Stand off-camera and read it. I won’t take the credit.” Nate grabbed the mic and clicked it off. “She’s not going on camera.” It was a rare moment of protection. He draped his jacket over my shoulders and pressed his hand to the back of my neck. “It’s windy. Go to the car. Give me the card, and I promise, no one will read the message.” “And after the shoot?” “We stay. Just us.” “Just us?” “Yes.” He pulled a small paper bag from his pocket. Inside were two pieces of almond biscotti and a thermos of hot water. He knew I got car-sick and couldn't eat anything heavy. “Trust me one last time, Elena.” The warmth of the thermos seeped into my skin. He held out his hand. I placed the card in it, and he closed my fingers over his for a second. “When the sun goes down, I’ll walk you to the lighthouse.” Eight years. This was all I had ever wanted. I nodded. Nate tightened the jacket around me and walked toward the wooden wall. The cameras started rolling. Serena pulled the first card from the tin. “Wish one: hot donuts in the historic district.” She read it with practiced charm. Nate stood beside her, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as the wind caught it. The second card. The third. Words I had written in private, intended for his eyes only, were being broadcast to a crew of twenty. The director gave a "keep going" signal. Finally, Serena held up the empty tin. “There’s one left.” I gripped the railing of the boardwalk. Nate looked at me. “Elena, give it to me.” “You promised no cameras.” “We just need the shot of me placing it. No reading.” “I don't believe you.” Mrs. Holloway marched over. “Nate has kept everyone waiting for forty minutes just to coddle you. Enough is enough.” The director took off his headset. “Elena, if we stop now, everyone’s flights have to be rebooked. Can you afford that?” Serena stood by the wall, her eyes welling with tears. “It’s my fault. I shouldn't have done this. Nate, just delete my scenes.” Nate’s jaw tightened. “It’s not your fault.” He walked to me and held out his hand. “The last time, Elena.” “No.” “Elena.” His voice was low and dangerous. The crew was watching. Mrs. Holloway was glaring. Serena was the picture of a tragic heroine. Nate pulled out his phone and played a voice memo. It was from three years ago, a message I’d left him while I was at the Cape alone. “Nate, the lighthouse is glowing. I saved a spot for you. Next time, you have to be here with me, okay?” He turned the screen off. “I remembered.” I stared at him. “You kept that for three years?” “I listen to it whenever I can’t sleep on the road.” It was a sweet, lethal hook. It was so sweet I almost forgot that every other card on that wall was now a prop for him and Serena. He opened his palm. “Give me the card. Let’s finish this so I can take you to the lighthouse.” I gave it to him. Nate turned back to the cameras. Serena took the card, but she didn't put it in the tin. The director gestured for her to flip it over. “Serena, read it. The emotion is right there.” I stepped forward. Nate blocked me with his arm. “It’s just work,” he hissed. Serena looked down and read the words. “If we don’t go this year, I won’t wait for the next.” She paused, then looked up at Nate with a scripted, longing gaze. “Nate, will you finish this journey with me?” The network executives started clapping. Mrs. Holloway handed Nate a commemorative wax seal. Per the script, he was supposed to stamp the final card and hand it to Serena. I grabbed his sleeve. “If you stamp that, Nate, we’re done.” He looked down at me, his voice a whisper. “The cameras are on. Don't force me to choose here.” “I’m only asking once.” “After the shoot.” He pulled his arm away, took the stamp, and pressed it into the red wax. The red seal landed right in the center of the card, obliterating my name. My hand stayed frozen in the air for a second before I dropped it to my side. When the director yelled "Cut," I didn't wait. I pulled a signed Termination of Licensing Agreement from my bag and handed it to the network rep. The data for the second half of the season—the Pacific Northwest leg—was mine. Without my signature, they couldn't use a single word of it. Mrs. Holloway’s face went white. “You had this ready the whole time?” “I was just preparing to take my life back,” I said. I took off the crew badge and dropped it into the empty tin box, followed by the keys to Nate’s house. The wax on Serena’s card was still wet. Nate caught me at the exit of the boardwalk. “Where are you going?” “The lighthouse.” “Give me thirty minutes to wrap.” I pulled my wrist away. “I’m not waiting anymore, Nate.” Nate watched me walk away. For the first time, he didn't follow. He looked down at the tin, where my house keys sat on top of the train ticket. The name on the ticket had been corrected. He thought I was just throwing a fit. But an assistant came running up, breathless. “Mr. Holloway, Elena just handed in her transit pass. She booked a one-way ferry off the Cape. It left ten minutes ago.”
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