Would she really write that out? Wasn’t her silence enough? That one genericHappy New Yeartext had done the job just fine.
What if it said it meant nothing to her?
But worse—what if it said it meanteverything?
I shook my head, pushing back the thought. If she wanted to be here, she would be. Sitting by my side, helping me figure out how to piece together the melted, scorched wreckage of Magnolia’s portrait.
I hadn’t even told Mags I’d saved it yet. I stopped by Eunice’s last week to see if she knew anyone who could restore damage like this, but no luck. Now all I had was a half-melted, ash-streaked version of my sister glaring back at me—and no one to bounce ideas off of.
I groaned and dropped onto the nearest stool, scrubbing a hand down my face. This was loneliness. Not being alone, but loneliness in its most distilled, raw form.
There were people around all the time. Jordan and Doyle were upstairs. Mags was down the street. Sutton was on her way over. Lee was a phone call away.
But the loneliness? It was a living, breathing thing pacing these uneven floors right alongside me.
And loneliness, someone once told me, makes people do the most unbelievable things.
“Jesus, you look like you’re about to run into traffic. And could you please, for the love of God, put on a shirt?”
Sutton stood in the front gallery, flanked between the wine-bottle and hubcap Bird Girl statue and an old piping spool I’d turned into a side table. More art. More junk. More unfinished projects.
I shook my head, like that could dislodge the weight of everything. I’d lived a meaningful life before her. I could do it again.
And maybe this time, I wouldn’t waste it chasing demons that didn’t belong to me.
I grabbed the to-go bag from Sutton and motioned for her to sit. I started plating our food in silence.
“Are you gonna talk to me at all?” she asked, flopping into the seat across from mine. “Or is this one of your signature brooding episodes that I’m the lucky guest of tonight?”
I grunted.
“Noted,” she muttered, popping up to grab drinks from the fridge.
We ate. Or rather,Iate in silence. Sutton yammered on about Magnolia finding out Dane hadn’t canceled their honeymoon and how Magnolia thought it’d befunif the two of them went to Ireland together.
The old me would’ve had a full-blown panic attack about that. My baby sister leaving the country while her arson-happy ex-fiancé was still on the loose?
But the new me—the me trying to listen to Eunice Wilder and be a person withboundaries— and a heart that was beating erratically out of my chest at the thought of the piece of paper sitting on the workbench behind us, only had one thing to say.
“She left me a letter.”
***
Charlie,
I never planned to become the Waving Girl.
I’d always felt a quiet kinship with her, sure. But now here I am—standing on a shoreline you can’t see, scarf in the air, hoping that one day a boat carrying a broad-shouldered artist might cut through the fog and dock beside me. Whether you read this an hour after I’m gone or a year from now, I’ll still be waiting.
I already miss you. I missed you before I was even brave enough to admit you were mine to miss.
I miss sitting in the studio with you, watching you work, immersed in the rhythm of doing what you love. I miss the wayyou grumbled when Nancy claimed half your pillow or barked at you like you were a threat, but you let her stay anyway. I miss waking up to find you stretched out on that far-too-expensive loveseat, pretending you hadn’t been listening for my footsteps.
I miss the way you looked at me when what was bubbling beneath the surface finally broke through. After weeks of circling it, how your hands felt on me, whether in the heat of intimacy or in those quiet moments when you’d just rest a steady palm on my back, grounding me without a word.
I’m sorry I ran.
Fear was the only reason, and it isn’t noble. I was terrified that the second I believed in this—believed in you—you’d be the one to let go. And I’ve fallen too many times to survive another drop. So I left first.
