Chapter 4 Calligraphy Boot Camp, Crazy Actions

# Chapter 4: Calligraphy Boot Camp, Crazy Actions

Terry's revelation had changed everything. For days after discovering the letters, I found myself returning to the hidden compartment, reading more of his decade-long correspondence with a version of me that existed only in his imagination, then with the real me who eventually entered his life.

"It's strange," I told Terry over breakfast, one week after my discovery. "Reading about our relationship from your perspective—it's like watching a movie about my own life."

Terry nodded, sliding a plate of avocado toast toward me. "I know it's a lot to process. Finding out your fiancé was essentially stalking you for years before you reconnected."

"I wouldn't call it stalking," I said, though the thought had crossed my mind. "More like... persistent long-distance pining."

"That's generous," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Most people would find it creepy."

"Most people haven't lost their memory and discovered they're engaged to their high school nemesis." I took a bite of toast. "Normal relationship metrics don't exactly apply here."

Since finding the letters, Terry had been refreshingly honest about our past. He'd shown me real photos, told me real stories—including the embarrassing ones where he'd made mistakes or we'd argued. Our relationship hadn't been the perfect romance depicted in his fake diary, but it had been genuine, with all the complexities that entailed.

I still couldn't remember any of it, but I was beginning to understand how 18-year-old Jacqueline Alvarez, who despised Terry Walker with every fiber of her being, could have eventually fallen in love with the man he became.

"I have a meeting this morning," Terry said, checking his watch. "But I was thinking maybe tonight we could try that new Italian place you read about last month? Before the accident, you kept saying you wanted to go there."

I appreciated that he was now careful to distinguish between things I had actually said and done versus his invented narratives.

"That sounds nice," I agreed.

After Terry left, I resumed my exploration of the letters. I'd been reading them chronologically, and had reached 2019—the year we apparently reconnected. I pulled out a letter dated April 17, 2019:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*I can't believe what happened tonight. After ten years of imagining our reunion, rehearsing what I might say if I ever saw you again, you approached ME at the Morrison Foundation Gala. Just walked right up in that stunning green dress and said, 'Terry Walker, it's not too late to get to know me, right?'*

*I must have looked like an idiot, standing there speechless. Of all the scenarios I'd imagined, I never considered that you might not remember me—or worse, that you might remember me but choose to be gracious anyway.*

*You gave me your business card. Said your firm was looking for investment partners for the new sustainable housing development. All business, completely professional. But you smiled when you said my name, and for a moment, I let myself hope that maybe you don't hate me anymore.*

*I'm having lunch with you tomorrow to discuss the project. Just lunch. Just business. But it's more than I ever dared to hope for.*

*- Terry"*

The letter confirmed what Terry had told me about our reconnection. According to him, that business lunch had led to more meetings, which gradually became less about work and more about getting to know each other. Six months later, we were officially dating.

I set the letter aside, thoughtful. The Terry who wrote these letters was earnest, sometimes awkward, occasionally self-pitying, but undeniably sincere. His devotion to me—or at least, to his idea of me—was both touching and slightly overwhelming.

My phone buzzed with a text from Terry:

*Meeting running late. Have to cancel dinner. Sorry! Will make it up to you.*

I texted back an acknowledgment, then decided to continue exploring the apartment. Despite having lived here for weeks now, there were still corners I hadn't thoroughly investigated.

In the guest bathroom, I found a drawer filled with beauty products I apparently used, including a jar of expensive night cream that seemed barely touched. In the hall closet, I discovered a box of holiday decorations labeled in my handwriting. In the laundry room, behind the detergent, was a stash of chocolate bars—apparently my secret indulgence.

These little discoveries made me feel closer to my adult self, to the woman who had built this life I couldn't remember. But they didn't trigger any actual memories.

In the early evening, I heard the front door open.

"Terry?" I called out, surprised he was home earlier than expected.

"In here," he replied from the entryway. "Can you come help me? My hands are full."

I found Terry struggling with several shopping bags and what looked like an easel.

"What's all this?" I asked, taking some of the bags.

"Equipment," he said cryptically. "For a project."

Once we'd deposited everything in the living room, Terry began unpacking his purchases: high-quality paper, various ink bottles, calligraphy pens, practice workbooks, and instructional manuals.

"Are you taking up art?" I asked, confused.

Terry looked at me with determination. "I'm going to learn proper calligraphy. No more 'scribbling like a doctor on caffeine pills,' as you once put it."

I picked up one of the instruction books—"Mastering Copperplate Script in 30 Days."

"This seems... intensive," I observed.

"That's because I've hired Master Chen to teach me," Terry explained. "He's the head of the National Calligraphy Association. He'll be here three times a week starting tomorrow."

I stared at him. "You hired a master calligrapher to give you private lessons?"

"Yes."

"Because I said your handwriting was bad?"

"Because," Terry said earnestly, "when you read those letters, you mentioned that my handwriting gave you a headache. And you were right. You deserve better than that."

I couldn't help but laugh. "Terry, I was joking! Your handwriting is... well, it's not great, but it's legible. You don't need to take professional lessons."

"I do," he insisted. "Those letters represent ten years of my feelings for you. I want to rewrite them—all of them—so that reading them is a pleasure rather than a strain."

I blinked, processing this information. "You want to rewrite all 3,650 letters?"

"Actually, the count is up to 3,783 now," Terry corrected. "And yes. Every single one."

The sheer magnitude of the task was mind-boggling. "That would take years!"

"Then it takes years," Terry said simply. "I have time."

There was something both absurd and deeply moving about his determination. This was a man who ran a multi-billion-dollar corporation, who made decisions affecting thousands of employees, who negotiated international deals worth millions—and he was prepared to spend years improving his penmanship because I'd made an offhand comment about his handwriting.

"You're crazy," I said, but there was no bite to my words.

Terry grinned—a genuine, boyish smile that transformed his usually serious face. "Crazy about you, maybe."

The line was cheesy, but his expression was so earnest that I felt my cheeks warm.

Over the next few days, Terry's calligraphy project consumed our apartment. The dining table became his practice area, covered with sheets of paper bearing endless repetitions of loops and curves. The guest bathroom counter held bottles of ink and cleaning solutions for his pens. Even our bedroom wasn't spared—I often found him propped up in bed at night, practice workbook in lap, lips moving silently as he counted strokes.

Master Chen was a stern, elderly man who showed no leniency despite Terry's status. During their first lesson, I overheard him saying, "Your hand moves like frightened squirrel. Slow down! Feel the brush as extension of arm."

After the lesson, Terry emerged from his makeshift studio looking exhausted but determined.

"How did it go?" I asked.

He showed me his practice sheet—row after row of the same basic stroke, each one minutely different from the last.

"Master Chen says I have the worst natural form he's seen in thirty years of teaching," Terry reported. "Apparently, I hold the pen incorrectly, my posture is terrible, and I rush through each stroke like 'businessman late for meeting.'"

Despite his self-deprecating report, I could see improvement even in that first practice sheet—the final row of strokes was more controlled than the first.

"You'll get there," I encouraged him.

Terry nodded seriously. "I have to. I've already ordered the special paper for the rewritten letters."

Two weeks into Terry's calligraphy boot camp, I received a call from Dr. Chen, my neurologist.

"Your latest scans look promising," she told me. "The swelling has completely subsided. Have you experienced any memory returns?"

I hesitated. "Not exactly. Sometimes I get feelings—déjà vu moments where something seems familiar, but no concrete memories."

"That's actually quite normal," she reassured me. "Memory return after amnesia isn't like in the movies, where everything comes flooding back at once. It's usually gradual, with emotional memories often returning before factual ones."

After the call, I found Terry in his study, practicing his letterforms.

"Dr. Chen says my brain is healing," I told him. "But she can't predict when or if my memories will return."

Terry set down his pen carefully. "How do you feel about that?"

It was a good question. How did I feel about potentially never remembering our relationship? Never recalling our first date, our first kiss, the moment he proposed?

"I'm not sure," I admitted. "Part of me desperately wants those memories back. But another part wonders if it matters. Even without remembering, I'm getting to know you now."

Terry's expression was carefully neutral. "And what do you think of this version of me? The one you're getting to know?"

I considered the question seriously. The Terry Walker I'd come to know over the past month was thoughtful, patient, and occasionally ridiculous—like with this calligraphy obsession. He was nothing like the arrogant teenager in my memories.

"I think," I said slowly, "that I can understand why I fell in love with you."

The hope that bloomed across his face was almost painful to witness.

"That doesn't mean I'm there yet," I quickly clarified. "But I can see the path."

Terry nodded, accepting this partial victory. "That's more than enough for now."

The next day, Terry's assistant called with an emergency at work—a key contract negotiation was falling apart, requiring his immediate attention.

"I have to go to the office," he told me apologetically. "I might be late."

"Go," I insisted. "I'll be fine here."

With Terry gone, the apartment felt strangely empty. I'd grown accustomed to the scratch of his pen, his muttered frustrations when a letter form didn't cooperate, the occasional triumphant "Ha!" when he mastered a particularly challenging technique.

I wandered into his makeshift calligraphy studio, examining his progress. His practice sheets showed remarkable improvement—his natural scrawl transforming into elegant, controlled strokes. Master Chen had been drilling him on the basic forms of copperplate script, and Terry had filled notebook after notebook with repetitive exercises.

Next to his practice area was a small box containing what appeared to be his first completed project—a set of gift tags bearing my name in careful, if slightly stilted, calligraphy. "Jacqueline" rendered in black ink with flourishes on the J and the final e.

I touched one gently, oddly moved by this tangible evidence of his effort.

My phone buzzed with a text from Terry:

*Crisis contained but meetings all afternoon. Don't wait up for dinner. There's that Thai place you like on speed dial. Or I can pick something up on my way home?*

I smiled at his thoughtfulness and texted back:

*I'll figure something out. Good luck with your meetings.*

On impulse, I added a photo of one of his calligraphy practice sheets with the caption: *Your squirrel hand is improving.*

His response came seconds later:

*Master Chen would disagree. Says I still grip pen like it might escape.*

I laughed out loud, then caught myself—this easy banter felt natural, comfortable. I was developing a relationship with Terry independent of our supposed history, and I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

That evening, alone in the apartment, I found myself drawn back to the hidden compartment of letters in Terry's study. I selected one from 2021, after we were already engaged according to the timeline Terry had shared:

*"Dear Jacqueline,*

*I caught you looking at my handwriting today with that little crease between your eyebrows—the one that appears when you're trying not to criticize something. You were reading the note I left about dinner plans, and I could practically hear your thoughts: 'How did this man graduate from Harvard with penmanship this atrocious?'*

*You didn't say anything, but you don't have to. I know my handwriting is a disaster. My third-grade teacher called my parents in for a conference about it. My father hired a tutor, who eventually quit in frustration. It's been the bane of my academic and professional existence.*

*But here's a confession: part of me has always liked that you tease me about it. It's such a normal, domestic thing to criticize in a partner. Not Terry Walker, CEO of Walker Industries, but just Terry, the guy with the terrible handwriting who forgets to buy milk and leaves his socks on the floor sometimes.*

*Is it strange that I cherish your criticisms as much as your compliments? Probably. But they make me feel like I'm really part of your life, flaws and all.*

*Maybe for our first anniversary, I'll take those calligraphy classes you've been joking about. Surprise you with a perfectly scripted love letter. Or maybe I'll keep my chicken scratch handwriting so you can keep rolling your eyes and sighing dramatically whenever you have to decipher my grocery lists.*

*Either way, I love that you accept all of me—even the parts that give you headaches.*

*- Terry"*

I stared at the letter for a long time, a lump forming in my throat. The Terry who wrote this—who cherished my criticisms because they made him feel normal, who worried about being seen only as a CEO rather than a real person with flaws—was so far removed from the privileged boy of my memories.

When I heard the front door open just after midnight, I was still in the study, surrounded by letters.

Terry appeared in the doorway, looking exhausted. His tie was loose, his hair rumpled from running his fingers through it—a habit I'd noticed when he was stressed.

"You're still up," he observed, his voice rough with fatigue.

I held up the letter I'd been reading. "You really meant to take calligraphy classes even before my accident?"

A tired smile crossed his face. "I've been meaning to for about two years. Just never found the time."

"And now you're spending three hours a day practicing letterforms."

"Now I have proper motivation," he corrected. "Nothing focuses the mind like the woman you love telling you your handwriting is atrocious."

I stood up, carefully returning the letters to their compartment. "Your handwriting isn't that bad."

"Liar," Terry said, but he was smiling. "You've complained about it at least once a month since we started dating. There's an entire section in our text history dedicated to your creative descriptions of my penmanship."

"Show me," I challenged.

Terry pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, then handed it to me. Sure enough, there was a text conversation spanning years, all variations on the theme of my apparent frustration with his handwriting:

*"Did you leave me a shopping list or a prescription for antipsychotics? Can't tell from the writing."*

*"Just deciphered your anniversary card. Very romantic once translated from ancient hieroglyphics."*

*"Your signature on our lease looks like a seismograph during an earthquake."*

I laughed despite myself. "I was ruthless."

"You were honest," Terry corrected. "And you were right. If I'm going to write you love letters, they should at least be legible."

I looked at this man—this successful, powerful man who was willing to make himself a beginner again, to struggle and fail and persist, all because of an offhand comment I'd made about his handwriting.

"I think I'm starting to understand why I fell in love with you," I said softly.

Terry's expression was cautious, hopeful. "Oh?"

"You take me seriously. Even my complaints about something as trivial as handwriting."

He shrugged, but I could see my words had affected him. "Your opinions matter to me. All of them."

I stepped closer, studying his face—the face of my former enemy, now my fiancé, still a stranger in many ways but becoming less so every day.

"Your assistant said something interesting on the phone today," I mentioned. "She said you've been acquiring companies faster than you're learning calligraphy."

Terry laughed. "Miranda has strong opinions about my current priorities."

"Are they misplaced?" I asked. "Shouldn't the CEO of Walker Industries be focused on business rather than perfecting his loops and swirls?"

"The CEO of Walker Industries delegates effectively," Terry replied. "But the fiancé of Jacqueline Alvarez has important skills to develop."

There was something so earnest in his expression that I felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch him—to establish some physical connection with this man who loved me so completely. Before I could overthink it, I reached out and took his hand, examining his fingers where the pen had left indentations and ink stains.

"Your joints look sore," I observed.

"Master Chen is a demanding teacher," Terry admitted. "But I'm improving."

I ran my thumb over a particularly dark callus forming on his middle finger. "All this for some letters?"

"All this for you," he corrected quietly. "The letters are just the medium."

I looked up, meeting his gaze. The intensity there should have frightened me—this level of devotion from someone I still didn't fully remember loving. Instead, I found it strangely comforting. Whatever else was uncertain in my post-amnesia life, Terry Walker's feelings for me were absolute.

On impulse, I took one of the practice sheets he'd left on the desk—a page of carefully formed capital Js—and folded it, tucking it into my phone case.

Terry watched the gesture with wide eyes but said nothing, as if afraid to break the moment.

"I should get some sleep," I said, suddenly self-conscious. "And you look exhausted."

He nodded, stepping back to let me pass. "Goodnight, Jacqueline."

As I headed to my room, I heard the soft scratching of a pen behind me. Terry was back at his desk, practicing his letterforms despite the late hour and his obvious fatigue.

Dedication or obsession? I wasn't entirely sure, but I was beginning to think the distinction didn't matter. Whatever drove Terry Walker—the boy who had once been my nemesis, the man who had loved me from afar for a decade, the fiancé I couldn't remember accepting—it was powerful enough to transform him from the person I had most despised into someone I could imagine loving again.