Her hand froze as her mind registered the distinctive handwriting.
Her breathing came fast and hard as she ripped open Mo’s letter. It took several rounds of intentional breath work to avoid hyperventilating before she could read his words.
Dear Bronwyn,
It’s my turn to apologize. I’m sorry for what I said, for the way I said it, and for the anger that I allowed to take over.
You were trying to do the right thing. I can see that now—and I can respect it—because I would much rather be having this conversation in person, and if it were possible, I would have gotten on a plane and come to do just that.
To top it all off, after going on and on about how my address didn’t change, I find myself in the awkward position of having to say that I can’t tell you where I am or how long I’ll be here or when I’ll be home.
But if I do make it home, I would like to apologize in person, and I would like to hear the explanation you wanted to give.
I’m not rational when it comes to you. Never have been. Never will be.
I don’t expect you to believe this, but I regretted everything I said almost as soon as I said it. I went inside the restaurant, fully intending to enjoy the evening as planned, but five minutes in, I bailed on my buddies and took off in the direction you’d gone.
I’ve missed you. And I’ve missed our friendship. I’m glad you’re getting your life sorted out. So glad.
Anyway, I’ll find you when I get home. And if you’re up for it, we’ll talk.
Mo
Bronwyn stared at the letter.
She reread it ten times over the next two days.
She knew she should forgive him.
But she wouldn’t.
She pulled a pen out and wrote over the top of his last words.
No thanks.
Then, under that, she wrote,
You aren’t who I remembered either. I guess we’ve both changed, and not for the best. Live your life without me, Mo. I’ll happily live mine without you.
She took the letter, folded it, and placed it in an envelope. She mailed it to his parents’ house. He’d get it eventually.
And it didn’t matter to her anymore, anyway.
She was done.
Three Years Earlier
Mo took the stairs from the hospital parking lot three at a time. All he wanted was to get inside and see his mom. It had gutted him to be so far away from her while she was sick.
People her age weren’t supposed to get pneumonia and almost die from an allergic reaction to the antibiotics, especially while their sons were twenty hours away.
Aunt Carol had called him while he was en route and promised that his mom was stable. But that call couldn’t erase the terror that had invaded his soul when Meredith called to tell him that their mom was being rushed to the ICU because she couldn’t breathe.
He’d gotten an emergency medical leave, but it still took more time than he wanted to make the arrangements and get home.
He paced by the elevator and tried to slow his breathing. His dad and Meredith were here. So were Cal and Aunt Carol. He didn’t need to come busting out of the elevator like that great big Kool-Aid man.
When the elevator chimed, he dashed inside and paced the small space until the doors opened again. He half walked, half jogged to the room. The door was open and when he heard the voice inside, he froze.
