"I was made and meant to look for you, and wait for you, and become yours forever."

— Robert Browning

"Jules, look!" Brooke pointed at the massive motorway sign, as her adorable, uncontrollable laughter filled the small space of the car. "World's largest cowboy boots."

"Exiting now, love." I grinned at her exuded enthusiasm.

We were having such a good time on our road trip to Florida, and very leisurely stopping at any place that caught our eyes along the way.

Before we left her flat, Brooke and I decided to stretch the thirty hour drive from Tucson to Orlando over five days—to save both of our sanities and the life of her older car. In making this decision, we were able to do what I rarely ever had the opportunity to do whilst on busy tours—enjoy plenty of sight-seeing. Not having to stop at all for dialysis treatments along the way really helped a lot with time.

Wacky coffee shops, barbecue restaurants with seventy-two ounce cuts of steak, shopping malls, state parks, and Ripley's Believe It or Not! Museum—we stopped off for them all.

"My mom just called," Brooke announced one night, when I got back to the car from purchasing our hotel room for the evening. The simplest things about her amused and intrigued me, even the way she said mum.

"Oh?" I asked. "Everything fine?"

"Yeah, she said she got a package from England," Brooke explained. "It's addressed to me, from Elizabeth. I told Rose not to open it... figured it was actually for you."

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," I tried to say smoothly. And it was for me... for me to give to Brooke. I just had to wrap it first.

We were set to move into our new Palm Bay flat, situated about an hour outside of Orlando, just after New Year's Day. It was more secluded there, with plentiful options for boat hires, or rentals as Brooke called them, which I fully intended to utilise. Until then, we'd be staying with Brooke's parents.

For some reason, she had wanted to surprise them with my tag-along arrival, and the closer we got, the more haywire my nerves went.

What was I supposed to say to introduce myself? "Hello, ma'am. Hello, sir. I know this is our first time meeting, but I'm going to be sleeping in your home for a week. A job? Well, I was in a fairly well-known band for some time, but that has since dissolved, what with two of the members being in jail now. Oh, yeah, I'm also marrying your beautiful daughter, and I may have just taken one of her kidneys."

Foolproof. They'd love me.

I would wait to hear it from Rose and Adam themselves, but Brooke promised they could help us with a lot of things. What with her mum being a tutor and working at a university, Brooke said she could help me get started on online courses, if I ever wanted to study. And I did.

Apparently, Adam also worked at the same university, as a counsellor. Brooke said he could offer me an outlet to rid myself of years of torturous memories, if I grew to trust him enough. At the very least, she said, he could refer us to another competent therapist. It didn't sound like a half bad offer.

The day before we were set to arrive, Brooke and I spent the afternoon and evening at Panama City Beach. Although it was a bit too cold for swimming, it was quiet enough for us to walk along the shore, then check out the strip.

"I'm so tired." She yawned when we finally buckled into the car again that night. It was a bit past one in the morning. "Aren't you?"

"No, not really," I replied honestly. "I was thinking, since the navigation system says we're only six hours away from your parents' house, you could just sleep and I'll drive the rest of the way there. We can be there by early morning that way."

"But what if you get tired?" She leant back to stretch. "I don't like the idea of you driving all night while I'm sleeping."

"I'll stop off somewhere if I get tired." I cranked the heat in the car and reached into the back seat to pull out a blanket. I used it to cover and warm her body in the passenger seat. "Close your eyes, darling."

She must have been really spent, because Brooke didn't argue with me. She was out within minutes. As I drove, our headlights cast a glow upon the pavement, illuminating the way back home. A new home for me, and an old home for her. Perhaps, though, since I'd be there with her, it would somehow feel new for Brooke as well.

Very few vehicles were on the road, what with everyone likely being gone for the holidays. The later the hours crept, the more desolate the road became, until our car was the only one lighting the way.

Once it was safe to do so, I looked over at my girl.

Brooke was buckled in, with a thick blanket draped over her curled-up body. Her feet rested on the seat itself and her head was pressed against the locked door. Brooke's slow breathing steadied my own, and everything in the past seemed to melt away slowly. Staring at her like that, still next to me after all of this time, gave me nothing but hope for the future. Our future. And because of her, there would be one.

I felt as though I were changing in that car.

Each minute that passed on that final night of driving, I was loosening my grip on any last burdens that tried to claim me. They couldn't touch me, if I only let go of them. They were turning from solid blocks, holding me back, to liquid—which had no choice but to slip through my fingers. I didn't want to hold it anymore, so I didn't.

Brooke didn't feel it, but I held her hand for the entire drive home, occasionally brushing my finger over her ring. Imagining her in all white gave me a sense of pride and peace.

Beautifully and sluggishly, the sun lazily began to rise. Red and gold tones peeked through the clouds on the open horizon before us. They grew in colourful intensity as the moments passed. The light of the sun cast gleams within me, as well as before me, and once it was fully overhead, I felt like a completely new man.

...

"You okay?" she asked, as we approached the front door. She locked her fingers between mine. "Your hand is shaking."

"I'm fine," I lied.

"Okay." She smiled and lightly knocked, three times.

The door cracked open, and at first, her mum didn't even seem to notice me.

"Brookie Monster!" Rose screamed as she took her beautiful daughter into her arms for a massive hug. I would have to remember to use that nickname sometime. Brooke probably hated it.

Yeah, I'd use it soon, I thought.

"And you've brought us another gift." Brooke's mum turned to look at me with a smile that turned her cheeks up. Cheeks that looked like Brooke's. "This must be Riley."

Riley. She'd told her mum my name was Riley. She was always trying to protect me, and I loved her so much for it.

"Julian Riley Miles, ma'am." I extended my hand. "Or just Julian."

"Hmm." She pursed her lips with an animated look in her eyes, which I noticed were a slightly lighter shade of brown than Brooke's.

"Rose Yolanda Fray," she said, taking a step forward to pull me in for a welcoming embrace. "Or just Mom."

I noticed Brooke's eyes welling when our hug finally ended, and I wanted to hold her hand, but Rose grabbed mine instead to lead me inside.

"Come on, I want you to meet Adam!" She led the way into the lounge, expertly manoeuvring past a very excited beagle and a calmer collie. I tried to take in as much of the house as I could, whilst we briskly walked. It smelt like pine, peppermint, and sugar. Every corner was decorated in shades of green and red.

"Adam, look who I found," Rose said to her husband, as his hands were halfway in the air to cheer for the American football match that he was watching.

"Oh, wow!" He stood to shake my hand, even before hugging his stepdaughter. "It's so good to finally meet you, son."

It should have felt awkward. It should have struck me as odd that they were welcoming me so freely. But it didn't. It just felt... right. I'd never been in that house before, but it suddenly felt like another home to me.

"Go, go, go, go!" Adam shifted his attention back to the television screen as the sound of cheering boomed through the speakers.

"Sorry, he's a little obsessed with football." Brooke leant into my side and kissed my shoulder. "And the Gators."

"There's only one football," I joked. "And that's footy."

"Soccer?" Adam asked.

"Football," I teasingly corrected. "This should be called armball."

"If you're going to be my son-in-law, I guess I can learn to compromise then," Adam said, with his attention still on the screen, effectively silencing me.

I looked over at Brooke.

"I told them on the phone," she whispered into my ear. "Is that okay?"

"They're... okay with it?" I whispered back, utterly shocked.

"They love you already," she assured me with a smirk. "Can't you see it?"

...

"Merry Christmas!" Brooke jumped on me in the cosy bed, and shook the mattress. "Come on, let's go downstairs to get some breakfast."

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, focusing on my beautiful girl in red pyjamas, and smiled.

"Happy Christmas." I looked over at the clock. It had just gone half-seven in the morning.

"Rose is making french toast. There's eggnog, too." She was glowing. Brooke looked even happier here, in this small bedroom with me, than she had in our paradise ocean villa the previous year for Christmas.

"May I give you my gift first?" My eyes searched the room for Liz's package. I found it on the floor, in the corner. I had wrapped Brooke's gift the night before and expertly hid it back inside the box.

"Don't want me to open it downstairs?" she asked, surprised.

"You may do, if you'd like," I offered. "I just thought, perhaps, you'd like to do it here, alone with me, since it's kind of personal."

"Well, now I'm getting excited." She rolled over on the bed. "Let's see it."

I found the rectangular, wrapped package and handed it to her. With a youthful smile, Brooke pretended to shake it, to hear its contents, before tearing into the paper. Her smile faded into a gaped mouth as she took it in.

"What is this?" she asked, turning the book over and reading the back sleeve.

"It's yours," I promised her. "Wes did the cover artwork and Liz did the copy editing and pressing."

Brooke stared at her professionally published collection of poems, bound in a hardcover book. The fact that so many of the poems were about us, gave me the idea to call it Arrows & Anchors. Liz had pressured me to come up with a title, and I hoped, with everything I had, that Brooke would like it.

"I'm..." She started to cry.

"You're?" I brushed her cheek, then kissed it.

"I'm a published poet?" she asked with beautiful, wet eyes.

"You are," I assured her.

"Jules." After smelling the pages of her very own book—inhaling the pleasant aroma of treated paper and adhesives—she flung her arms around me with such an intensity that I almost fell back onto the bed.

"I have one more gift for you, but it's intangible." A smile crept across my face.

"Huh?" she asked.

"Liz has a lot of connections across the world that I didn't know about, what with her owning the publishing house," I explained.

"Yeah?" Brooke followed along.

"Ms. Tanya Lemieux has broken a lot of confidentiality, publishing, and attribution laws," I said. "You're not the only one not working for the Tucson Telegram anymore."

After a long while, she sniffled. "Jules."

"Yes, my love?" I stroked her hair.

"Thank you." She nuzzled into me.

"Don't thank me," I said quietly.

"I have something for you, too." Brooke tiptoed across the room to get her purse, and pulled out a clean, white envelope. I noticed the front of it said "Julian."

"Another letter for me?" I smiled appreciatively.

"This one's not from me," she said.

I tried to read Brooke's face, but I couldn't. So, I broke the tight seal on the envelope, pulled out the thick papers, unfolded them, and started to read.

Dear Julian,

You don't know me yet, but I'm hoping this letter will someday change that. My name is Riley Moore, and I could have been a good dad to you.

I looked up at Brooke, who was smiling with tears in her eyes, then stared back down at the paper.

Now, I've tried to write this letter about thirty times, and discarded drafts have piled at my feet, but each time I try again to get the words right. Eventually, I will have to settle for an imperfect version and hope that it suffices regardless.

Julian, I have fallen very ill. If I thought I had a chance at living another month, I would have introduced myself to you tonight when I saw you on the London Eye. I recognised you from a magazine, and couldn't believe my eyes when I saw you standing in the same capsule as me this evening, as the snow lightly fell around us. What are the chances, son?

I ask for your forgiveness, in that I didn't explain who I was whilst butting into your conversation. I was sure that appearing in your life, only to disappear again, would have only caused you more damage. You've been through enough, my son. Also, your love was with you on the Ferris wheel, mentioning that it was her first time in London, so I felt a nervous wreck to interrupt with such heavy information and risk ruining your good time.

I only learnt of you five years ago, from your birth mother, and after endless searching, I was led to an orphanage in Lambeth. I knew you were too old to be there still, but I desperately hoped they would help to lead me to you. From what I was told, you went missing from the orphanage at age sixteen, and though police had attempted to find you, they never could. Two years later, they stopped looking.

But I never have.

I don't know what, exactly, has happened to you in your life, Julian, or why you ran away, or where you ran off to. Please know that I would never have allowed Eileen to do what she did, had I only known about you. I can't answer why she did what she did, I can only apologise and beg for your forgiveness. I have been silently begging for it since the day I learnt of your blessed presence in this world.

I always wanted a son, and it soothed me to know you were somewhere out there in this great big world, even if I couldn't ever find you.

Amazingly enough, although you could have been anywhere in the world, you were in the same city as me all along. Is it mad of me, to feel as though that made us closer?

I will not insinuate or guess, because there is so much about you I will, dreadfully, never get to learn. But if, for some reason, you harboured an insecurity of worth, please trust that you are deeply loved, Julian. Never go a day in your life feeling unwanted, because you were always wanted. And I will safely guess, from the way your beautiful young woman stared adoringly at you on the London Eye, you are vastly cherished as well. I wish I had the chance to know you, as she does. I am nothing short of positive that you are a light in the darkness.

I hope you heard what I said to you on the Ferris wheel this evening. If there is one bit of wisdom that I feel I absolutely must pass along to you, it is that it gets better, son. Let any sadness slip through your fingers. Find your happiness, hold on tight, and don't let go. Things always seem to find a way to get better, but you have to leave yourself open. You cannot let the cruelty of the world make you forget about its beauty. Keep your heart warm, my son.

I'm giving this letter to your half sister, Elizabeth. I've already told her everything I know about you—which isn't nearly as much as I would like—in high hopes that you will one day reach out to her.

Liz grew up as an only child and always wanted a sibling. But her mother, Charlotte, passed away before that could become a possibility. Little did we know, however, Elizabeth already had an older brother.

And what an amazing young man he has become.

I'm certain that Liz would love to connect with you, and I hold steadfast in my optimism that you'll find each other one day. Perhaps, if you find your mother, and she lets you know about me, you will search for me, and your search will lead you to Liz. I can only hope that is the case. If you find that you want to know more about me, Liz would be ecstatic to speak with you and connect the dots.

Although it is not much in comparison to the empire that you have already created for yourself through your music and talent, should you ever want it, you will be half the owner of Blank Slate Publishing House—my company that I'm leaving in Liz's hands for the time being. She knows of my wishes to make you part owner, if you ever wanted it, and Liz is ready to make those legal changes.

I don't have to see you again in order to be positive that I love you, son. Sometimes, in this life, you just know that you love somebody before you even meet them. Perhaps, you already know this well.

I won't say goodbye, son, I will simply say... goodnight.

Riley

Brooke's arms wrapped around me, the very moment I set the letter down on the bed.

She had been right all along. Words were what we needed. What I needed. It had just taken me until then to realise it.

In the band, I had been given more cash than I needed, treated lavishly, and pampered with luxuries fit for a king. Yet, I had never felt more like royalty than I did in that small home—surrounded by the soft sounds of a radio downstairs, quietly playing holiday carols, and the muted sizzling of a frying pan. The coconut scent of Brooke's hair completely encompassed me, as we held each other. With my ear resting upon her chest, I heard the glorious, unmistakable sound of her selfless heart beating beneath her soft skin. That was my true wealth.

It was my first Christmas in a place I really considered to be my home, with my new family. For once, I was sure they cherished me just as my dad would have, had he only had the chance. Through words, I had met my dad at last. Through words, I knew I loved him. And I was proud to share part of his name.

Perhaps, I thought, luck was like an allowance. You could spend it a little at a time, spread about in different areas along the way in life. Or, you could spend it all at once, and run it dry for the one thing you really wanted.

Maybe, just maybe, my luck was spent before I was born. It was conceivable to imagine that I'd spent it all on that fateful day I would finally find my Brooke—with every terrible thing happening along the way having simply been hurdles that I couldn't afford to avoid at the time. Suddenly, it felt as though my good fortune account was starting to refill itself at last.

So long ago, I had told Brooke that we were two parts of a song: lyric and melody. My instrumentation tried to portray, whilst her words tried to explain. Somewhere along the way, we had compromised a bit on both—tweaking the typos and tuning the strings.