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Katherine tried to keep her expectations in check. She knew, of course, that Anne would never come to care for her half as much as she cares for Gilbert: he’s the man she’s going to marry, going to live with all the rest of her days, the two of them sitting by the fireside in cozy matched chairs, Anne’s animated face lit golden by the light of the flames, with red glints like sparks in her hair…
Oh, perhaps Katherine imagined herself sitting in that other chair, but only in her weakest moments. Anne would never throw Gilbert over, certainly not for a girl - and certainly not a girl liked Katherine, plain and cross-grained, when Anne liked them pretty and sweet. Just look at that Diana: boring as a stick in the mud, but handsome.
Oh, but that was jealousy talking. Ever since Anne won her heart, Katherine had tried so hard to fight back her old jealous tendencies: to be worthy of Anne by being happy when other people had good things, rather than eating her heart out wondering why everyone had all the things she wanted so much, and lacked. Good looks, good spirits, good friends.
But what was the point in being worthy of Anne anymore, now that Anne had gone away to marry Gilbert, and they would never see each other again?
Their final meeting rose up in Katherine’s mind like bile in her throat. Anne had been polite of course - no, more than polite; truly a little sorry to be leaving behind her pal Katherine. She might even miss Katherine, once in a while, for the first month or two. Then Anne would forget her.
Oh, Katherine hadn’t cried in front of Anne, at least. She hadn’t managed to say any of the things that she wanted to say: “I never had a friend before you, and I don’t see how I can have another friend after,” or even “You’ll let me come visit, won’t you?” Oh, Katherine would have sat at Anne’s feet by the fireside like those china dogs Anne was so proud of.
No: all Katherine managed to say was, “We’ll write, I suppose,” her voice almost as stiff as it had been when she first met Anne, the beautiful new lady-principal with an engagement ring on her finger, and hated Anne in her heart for having everything she couldn’t have.
“Of course we’ll write,” said Anne. Her eyes shone like stars in her face, but not at the prospect of letters. No. She was looking forward to seeing her Gilbert again.
And then she embraced Katherine: oh, the briefest embrace. Katherine could have clung to her, could have buried her face in Anne’s hair and breathed in the scent of her, trying to store up enough of it to last for her whole life.
But instead that hug lasted bare seconds. She felt Anne’s arms around her, and Anne’s cheek as soft as a lily petal against her own; and then Anne let go, before Katherine had even put her arms around her. It still surprised her so much to be hugged that she had to remind herself to hug back.
“Your letters will be a thousand times more interesting than mine,” said Anne, laughing. “You’ll be going all around the globe, and I won’t even be leaving PEI.”
As if Anne didn’t write so well that magazines took her stories; as if Katherine wouldn’t have lifted Anne’s letters to her lips and kissed them a hundred times even if Anne wrote her a mere postcard, with no message other than “Wish you were here.”
Oh, if Anne ever wrote Katherine such a message - if she really meant it, rather than simply writing it as an appropriate postcard sentiment -
Katherine flung herself on her bed. She wished she could abandon herself to a storm of weeping, but her eyes remained as hot and dry as a desert.
If she and Anne kept up a correspondence, each letter, each note, even if it came down to nothing but a yearly Christmas card, that would be sunshine and water enough to keep this love alive. It would dig its roots into Katherine’s heart, and rip her to pieces as tree roots rip concrete.
She would never write to Anne. She would lock Anne away in her heart, and throw away the key, and eventually for lack of oxygen this bitter love would die.