Dear Sarah,

I met him on vacation in Dublin. My first impression of him was that he was totally average. When he spoke, however, his voice twisted and twirled and curled in my ears like an expert dancer.

My charms are often resistable, so I was pleasantly surprised when he took notice of me. Apparently, an American in Dublin is exotic enough to warrant attention, especially with my Native American heritage. I avoided his questions about tribes and spoke instead of the oppression if "my people." Being Irish, he found similar experiences in his ancestry.

I loved to hear him talk, and I soon found myself curled around him, my ear pressed to his chest to better hear his voice. 

I kept him from getting thirsty or curious. By then, I was already a master of deflection.

His name was Jamie. I told him my name was Veronica Saint, and that I was travelling to scratch items off my bucket list after a bad breakup. Both half-truths, as you know, but I didn't want him to know about me.

We spent the night together. Try not to be too shocked. Think of what I had been through and try not to think too poorly of me.

The next day, I set out to check off the next item from my list: get drunk from whiskey at an Irish pub.

I believe it's called nursing a drink when you take forever to finish, but I don't know what it's called when, even after an hour, you've not even taken a sip.

I hated myself for the strange line that I had drawn. Somehow, my scruples would not allow my taking a drink of alcohol, despite what had happened the night before. I had sworn to myself never to become like my father, and apparently that oath was worth more than the oath of fidelity and chastity.

I hated myself, and I hated God, and I hated Richard. My loathing was interrupted by a hand on my lower back. I reacted on impulse by jeering my elbow back into a man's gut.

I fell over myself apologizing when I recognized Jamie. And because I was already in the middle of extreme emotions, I started to cry; to sob, in fact. And when he pulled himself back up, I buried my face in his shirt.

He turned to the bartender to ask him how much I'd had, and I could tell he didn't believe the man when he told Jamie that he hadn't seen me take even a sip of my whiskey.

He led me to a table in back, probably to avoid the embarrassment of having a woman sobbing into his shirt. He started talking, trying to soothe me and calm me down. I sobbed out about how dare Richard die and leave me so alone? I sobbed out what was probably my life story up to that point. And, at the end, he told me to breathe, and asked if I was hungry, then ordered food for us.

I don't know what prompted him to stay. I don't know why he didn't run at first chance, but he helped cheer me up, and even told some truly awful jokes that had me smiling again.

I nevery saw him again after I went home, and I never got his last name or an address or anything useful, so I had no way to tell him when I found out about you.

Take comfort knowing he was a good man. Know he was kinder to me than a lot of people would've been.

Please forgive me.

I love you.

Mom