One Small Chance: a novella (a Love Story from Portugal) Read Free

like I did a few years back when I was out of the country (maybe one day I’ll tell you more about it). I got a new email address though: [email protected]. Wish me lots of luck!
    Your best pen pal,
    Elliot
     
    * * *
     
    To: [email protected]
    From: [email protected]
     
    Dear Elliot,
    You are indeed my best pen pal, if not by content at least by default since all my other pen pals stopped writing me years and years ago (someone has to keep you humble).
    I have a similar box full of letters in my bedroom closet. Hard to believe it’s been almost fifteen years since we started our correspondence. I still remember my English teacher drawing the names in 9th grade. Just our luck we got paired. I never noticed that you wrote dumb things. You must have been writing those to someone else.
    Congratulations on your big change! I’m so excited for you! I will live vicariously through you, even if we don’t exchange details. I’m still at the same job and I don’t have the courage to change. I must confess, I liked it a lot better a few years ago when I first started, and sometimes I wonder if I’m making a difference in the lives of those around me, like I had planned to. One day at a time, like grandmother used to say.
    Emails will be fine. We are in the 21st century after all. I know your big change will keep you busy, but this is the address you can write when you find yourself with a free moment.
    Your faithful friend,
    Amélie
     
    P.S.—I knew you were out of the country for a while. You let it slip a time or two, but I was too much of a lady to mention it. :)
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER THREE
     
     
     
    Simon entered the apartment and locked the door behind him. He dragged himself to the sofa and let the messenger bag slip to the floor. He exhaled slowly, placed his elbows on his knees and rested his forehead against his palms.
    That moment when he approached the girl down on the pavement, Simon’s world had stopped—she’d had the envelope, the one he had sent Amélie the day before leaving London.
    How was that possible? How could it be that the girl he’d crashed into was the same one he’d been writing for years?
    What a day.
    It had started out well but crashing into a pedestrian at a busy intersection during rush hour had not been part of his plans. He’d tried stopping but couldn’t slow in time. The girl had been distracted and didn’t see him until it was too late. The impact had slammed her hard, her bag and a piece of paper she’d been holding flying from her grasp. His stomach clenched, still sick with worry at the image of the girl lying on the pavement. He couldn’t get the memory out of his mind.
    He shook his head and stood, trying to make sense of what had happened.
    In the few minutes while they’d waited for the paramedics to come, he’d wanted to lay his hands on her head and give her a blessing. But there hadn’t been enough time, and Simon had touched his fingertips to her forehead instead, saying a quick prayer in his mind. Then he’d slipped the letter into the pocket of her blazer, not able to deal with the discovery he’d just made when her wellbeing was more important.
    Simon had tried to find out which hospital they’d taken her to, but nobody would tell him anything. In a country where so many spoke English all the time, it was just his luck not to find anyone who did when he needed it most. The young woman who’d claimed to be her friend had spoken English but she had been extremely protective and tried to keep him at a distance from the injured girl. In his preoccupation to stay beside her, he’d probably come off as slightly imbalanced. He couldn’t blame her for shielding her friend.
    When a uniformed policeman arrived at the scene to take his statement, he kept Simon for several minutes. The officer’s English had not been very good, but after talking to a few witnesses, he’d appeared to be satisfied and had sent Simon on his