The Jacket

The oppressive August heat beat down on the sidewalk as Meg paced back and forth. There was no sense to continue to wait for Ben. She took one long gaze into the diner before giving up. It was silly thinking he would come; they had broken up. Still, they had been coming to this diner every Sunday morning for 18-months; it felt wrong not to come. Meg began walking home when a refreshingly cool breeze snaked to her from the doorway of a thrift shop. The small reprieve from the humidity called to her.

"Hey," the bored counter girl called without looking up from her phone. "Let me know if you need any help."

Meg didn't bother to respond. She wasn't looking for anything other than a few moments in the air conditioning. She floated around the racks of clothes letting her hand slide along the fabrics of each piece. Nothing captured her attention until she drifted across the cool butter leather of a moto jacket. Absently she plucked it from the rack and pulled it on. She tucked her hands into the empty pockets to gauge the fit. It was as if somebody tailored the jacket to her.

In the far corner of the store, Meg spotted a mirror. She moved closer to admire the soft caramel coat. She glanced down to let her fingers try the zipper, but when she looked up, she was not alone. She jumped and looked behind her for the woman, but there was no one there. Gaping back at the mirror, a pretty brunette with green eyes was gazing back, wearing the same jacket. Meg couldn't pull her stare away from the sad eyes of the girl, watching as she tapped the side pocket of the coat. Instinctively Meg's hand went to the pocket, but this time it wasn't empty.

Meg pulled a tattered letter from the pocket. The girl locked in the mirror didn't say a word, but her eyes pleaded with Meg. The address was only a couple of blocks away; the least she could do was deliver the letter. If nothing else, it would dissuade the haunting image of the melancholy woman from lingering in her thoughts. She quickly paid the distracted counter girl and headed back into the heat.

Meg gathered more than a few looks for wearing a jacket in the clinging heat, but she didn't feel the temperature; she was too preoccupied with the letter. Her mind whirled around the addressee, Chris Turner. What would he be like, and how was he connected to the jacket? She trudged up the stairs drawn to apartment 204, fighting the nerves as she knocked in rapid succession. She lingered, waiting for a response that didn't come. She balanced her weight from one foot to the other uncertain what to do. She had to find him; he had to be here.

Meg shook off her foolishness. She must have imagined the girl, and the letter was probably just left by the previous owner before they sent the jacket to consignment. She set her path to the nearest mailbox, intent on popping the letter in the mail as any rational person would. She hardly noticed the unassuming man she passed.

"Excuse me," his voice was startled.

Meg lifted her gaze to meet the stranger's emerald green eyes. "Yes?"

"Nothing," his voice cracked a bit as he turned swiftly to continue up the stairs.

"Chris?" She called after him. He stopped dead, pausing before turning as though he were questioning if he should respond or if he should continue his way. His curiosity got the better of him as he turned and met her eyes. "Are you Chris Turner?" She prodded.

"Yeah, do I know you?"

"No, but I have this letter for you." Meg held up the tattered letter.

Chris hesitated again, but then descended the few stairs to accept the letter. His eyes grew as he peered at the handwriting before tearing into the note. His weight fell back to his heels as his mind settled into the contents. His lips slightly parted as he read the letter like a parched man sipping water. Meg felt guilty watching him but couldn't tug her eyes away.

"Where did you get this?" He finally managed in a weak voice.

"I found it in the pocket." She instinctively stuck her hand in the pocket as if to prove there was nothing else in there. "It was in a thrift store a few blocks away." Chris continued to gaze at her for a few long moments. "I'm sorry; I should have just put it in the mail."

"No." His voice came quick and sharp like a knife. "I mean, thank you."

"Do you mind me asking who it was from?" Guilt from her prodding filled Meg.

Chris melted to the stairs, rubbing his chin as his mind drifted for a few seconds. "Clara." He murmured. "It was from Clara. She passed away almost 2-years ago."

"I'm so sorry. I can see that you loved her. How long were you together?"

His mind worked through the question before he snapped back to the stairwell. "18-years," he answered before adding with a slight chuckle, "she was my little sister."

Meg felt her legs wilt to the stairs next to Chris. "I'm so sorry for your loss." She echoed again.

"I know it's cheesy, but she was my best friend." He let out another chuckle, "a super annoying, know-it-all, best friend." He lifted his gaze again. "I gave her that jacket," he added, letting the back of a knuckle trail over one of the arms.

Meg pulled herself up quickly, feeling intrusive to his memories. "I'm sorry." She added, wishing she could offer him more.

He gave her a curt nod as he pulled himself up. "Thank you." Meg turned to begin to descend the stairs again. "Hey," he called after her. "Would you want to get some breakfast? I know a great diner a couple of blocks away."