Where’s the Cabernet when I need it?
“I’d decided to end it,” I finally whisper, shame heating my face.
“Jesus, Maggie May.” His sympathetic expression contorts into one of horror.
“I know. And I’m embarrassed to admit it now, because I think it’s the coward’s way out. But back then, I didn’t see any hope that things would change, and I couldn’t stomach the thought of spending the rest of my life feeling that way. I told myself I’d reread the Harry Potter series and then I’d do it. My version of a last meal. Then you came along.”
He searches my eyes.
“Meeting you in the library after school was a gift I looked forward to every day. And little by little, so slowly I didn’t realize it was happening, the volume got muted on that insidious voice that whispered in my ear and told me it would be better for everyone if I just went away. You did that for me, Luc. Yousavedme. That’s what Jean-Pierre was talking about.”
“Jesus, Maggie May,” he says again, pulling me into another hug. This one is so tight I feel my ribs creak.
It takes me only a moment to become aware of how warm he is. How strong he is. How much he’snotthe boy I used to know.
I wiggle out of his embrace, frowning at my own discomfort.
Clearing his throat, he glances toward the binder on his lap and takes pity on me by switching topics. “So, the letters?”
“Right.” I nod, clearing my throat. “After y’all left, I pulled a Noah Calhoun and wrote one letter to you and one letter to Cash every day for a year.”
“You pulled a who?” His brow wrinkles, making his Superman whorl wiggle.
“The character from a Nicholas Sparks book?” I explain. “The one that was made into a movie starring Rachel McAdams?” I pound my chest like Ryan Gosling and quote one of the best lines ever about relationships being hard and requiring work, about love being a choice you make every day.
When one corner of his mouth quirks, I shake my head. “The point is, after y’all were gone, I couldn’t turn off all the thoughts and feelings I was used to sharing. So I wrote them down.” I point to the binder. “And not that I think you should read them. I mean, honestly, I’d be a self-involved idiot if I thought for one minute that whatever I had to say ten years ago is important enough for you to waste your time on now. But I wrote them for you. They’reyours.Feel free to put them on a shelf or burn them in a pyre.”
“Why give ’em to us now?” he asks, because he’s always been far too intuitive. “Did something happen?”
I don’t know why, but I can’t bring myself to tell him it’s my way of letting go of the past. Of letting go ofCash.All I say is, “Like I said, they’re yours. Giving them to you just feels like the right thing to do.”
