Heartbreaks have no cure

The young woman was trying her best to suppress her excitement but her face flushed. "Are you sure about these?"

A bunch of letters were sitting on the table, creating a mysterious aura about it. Some of the letters were read, some remained unread; almost all of them were yellowed and fragile. Looking at the bunch she hesitated. The middle-aged man sitting across the table smiled a little. This was all she wanted. She had traveled a long distance to gather information about the man.

The letters in question were the closest she had got to him. They were direct communication between him and Thomas Byrne. What could be better than letters?

"What about these?" She carefully sorted out the unread ones.

"I know what is written on each of them," he replied nonchalantly.

"I mean, is it alright if I open them? I'd be invading somebody's private life and it doesn't feel right."

"Thank you for being so considerate, but it's fine. I am giving you permission to open them. Honestly, I don't care about them anymore."

She took out a plastic pouch and transferred the letters inside it, zipped the pouch, and then put it in her tan leather bag. "Could you tell me how they met, or how they became business associates? You must know about him too, David Maxime. How similar was he to the book?"

"Oh, the book is just a teenage girl's fantasy. You have read it, how much of it do you think could be real?"

She understood what he meant. A tall, dark, mysterious man who oozed sexual energy. He was rich, had huge properties, and secrets to keep. It was definitely a hormonal schoolgirl's fantasy, but how much of it could be true?

She knew it was all true, except probably the part where he fell for the sweet, innocent heroine. However, given the fact that he was a notorious fuckboy once, even that part could be true. It was not difficult to believe, or imagine, but she didn't want to base her search on some beliefs or imaginations. She needed facts.

"The book is loosely based on him. He was charming and attractive, that I will admit, but the rest… huh!" He was jealous, not the way adults get jealous and hide it well under the mask of disgust, but the way children get jealous out of sheer admiration.

"How long had you worked with him?" she asked innocently. The camcorder in her bag recorded everything without the knowledge of the man. His name was Henry Miller, a man in his late forties, and he was a lawyer working in a small firm. The head office of the firm was in a shabby, decrepit building. The seating arrangements were old-fashioned, and the walls show signs of negligence and lack of prosperity.

"I worked for him, not with him. One morning I received a call from him, and then he just hired me."

"I thought you were something like friends," she sounded genuinely surprised.

"Well, we got close after a year or so." his eyes looked glazed, almost as though his emotions starting to get out of his control.

"That night, he was visibly upset. 'Would you like to have a drink with me?' he asked me. I instantly knew he was down. I guessed, he didn't want to go home. You see, I had those too. Lonely days and nights, and no, I am not talking about having a romantic partner or anything like that, it's just that there are times when you can't even find anyone to talk to. I guess it was a day like that."

"And you agreed to go for a drink?"

"Of course, I was a young lawyer then, looking for a steady job. I couldn't have said 'no' if I wanted to. To be honest, I wanted to have a break too. The work was going well, pretty well, but it also required a lot of hard work. My life was almost drained."

"If I hadn't, I would never know how entertaining he was. Constant waves of laughter, jokes, colourful stories, and whatnot… I don't think I ever had such a good time with anyone else. Then it started–every night after work we'd meet in a local bar. It was cheap, and crowded with imbeciles, yet he would still meet me there. I couldn't afford a better bar, and he had gathered enough wealth to buy a whole bar for himself. Still he would come there and have drinks with me."

"Sounds cool!" she commented. She intended to stay objective, and stick to her purpose; she didn't know when she got completely immersed in the story. This was the first time she was listening about his friendly side.

"One night, a man introduced himself to us. He was my junior at the university. After some small talk, he shared about his dire need for a job. Being the generous duo, we hired him at once. We did not ask for his resume, portfolio, or anything at all. It just happened. And that was how Thomas Byrne came in between us."

Why did it sound so— regretful? She frowned as her eyes fixated on his face.

"Do you know, what it feels like when everything you build with care just slips out of your hand? It was not much, a stable job, a good friend, a person to talk to… Thomas changed everything. All of a sudden all my projects were given away to him, he was joining us each night, he was following David like a lost puppy, and he was the one with all his information; suddenly I was an extra hand to Thomas. It was that time when she wrote the book, openly claiming that it was based on David Maxime. Thomas took care of that too. All the press releases and interviews related to that topic were either cancelled or covered up."

"And then I quit. So that's everything. Is there anything else I can entertain you with?"

She was wrong. She realised that as she watched the man's pained face. It was not jealousy, it was pain. The pain of losing something dear. And here she thought that a heart could be broken by only lovers or family members. Clearly, a heart could be broken by close friends too.

She had Thomas Byrne's address written in her notebook. It was the official contact, but she still didn't have enough reasons to make contact or ask for help finding David Maxime. She already had a lead, but it seemed like a weak one. That girl might refuse.

She was too lost in her thoughts to notice the vibration in her bag. When she finally did, the call was disconnected. She checked the number, and with a small smile of relief, she dialled back.

"Hey babe," she said cheerfully. There was a sweet smile on the other side and some reassuring words for her.

"You will find him, babe. You always had a strong will," the voice on the other side said.

"I'd like to believe so." She continued, "It will be difficult, but I will find a way."

She went on talking about Henry Miller. His pain and heartbreak, and everything else she had heard today.

"Don't get so emotional over him. You already know what he did to David." The voice reminded her of something she had almost forgotten. "He stole money from David. It was his generosity that he didn't sue him. He is a fraud, babe. Ha had always been."

"Maybe he is both, a fraud and a broken-hearted man. A man can have more than one side, can't he?"

After she disconnected the call, she wandered around the streets aimlessly. Part of her wanted to go home and take care of her sick lover, another part wanted to disappear in the crowd. Nobody knew her here. She could go to a place like he did and just stay there forever like he was probably going to do.

She wondered how he was able to tolerate everything. Being apart from his lover, his only family, being away from home, being forgotten, and being the one to forget everything… how did a person endure that?

From the stories, she knew what it was like physically. He was lost, hungry, confused, and hurt. Severely, incurably hurt. He looked for comfort, from person to person, from one place to another, from one relationship to another, and from one job to another. There was a time when he just travelled. He went to places, met people, made friends, and then with time even those stories started to fade.

Of course, she would find somebody who still remembered those stories if she wanted to, but then again, what was the point? She would just collect more stories of heartbreak and loss. With her own state, none of these were helping her anymore. She wanted a way out.

It had been more than twelve hours. She had not returned home with the excuse of working and staying out in the streets. She had not eaten anything, drank seven cups of coffee, and walked around the old streets. She was on the verge of giving up, which is why for the third time today she almost missed a call.

Checking the number, her heartbeat paced up. She dialled back after exactly five minutes and thirty-seven seconds. She needed to sound cheerful.

"Hey girl," she tried her best to sound like a person who didn't just have a breakdown. "What's up?"

"I have decided," Amy said from the other side, "Let's do it. I will arrange everything. We'll meet him next week."