This morning on the beach—watching her have therapy with a judgmental seagull, seeing her in the sunrise with coffee stains on her shirt, that moment when we were standing too close and she looked at me like maybe I wasn’t completely terrible—that was real.
That was the most real I’ve been with anyone in years.
And then the entire book club showed up, and I panicked and ran away like a coward.
Which is exactly what I confessed to Between the Lines last night.
So. Full circle of cowardice.
I force myself out of the car and into the post office before I can talk myself into leaving.
Deb looks up from her sorting. “Mr. Avery. Back again.”
“I’m expecting an important letter.”
“You’re expecting an important letter four times a day, five days a week.”
I pull out an envelope from my box. “This what you’re looking for?”
Between the Lines’s handwriting.
Jessica’s handwriting.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You know,” Deb says conversationally, “in my thirty years here, I’ve seen a lot of people check their mail obsessively. Usually means they’re either waiting for money or love. You don’t strike me as someone worried about money.”
I stare at her. “I?—”
“Just saying. Whatever’s in those letters, it’s making you check your PO box like a teenager waiting for prom invitations. Might want to just talk to the person directly.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is.” She goes back to her sorting. “But life’s short, Mr. Avery. Don’t spend it sitting in your car in parking lots.”
I take the letter and retreat to said car, where I immediately prove her point by sitting in the parking lot.
But I can’t open it here. Can’t risk reading something devastating in public.
I drive to the beach—the far end, away from where Jessica and I had our seagull-therapy encounter this morning—and finally, finally tear open the envelope.
I stop breathing. She thinks I’m brave. Jessica—who I’ve been lying to about everything, who doesn’t know I’m three different people in her life—thinks I’m brave.
I spent eight years choosing safe. Choosing walls over windows. Choosing protection over connection. And you know what I got? A life that looked fine from the outside but felt empty on the inside.
She’s talking about her ex-husband. About the eight years since her divorce. About how she’s been protecting herself the same way I have.
So yes. Tell her. Show her. Be brave.
And if she’s the right person—if she’s worthy of the truth you’re offering—she’ll see you. Really see you. And she’ll love you more for it, not less.
I read that line three times.
She’ll love you more for it, not less.
The risk is worth it. You’re worth it.
Trust me on this. Or trust yourself. Either way—jump.
