Only six weeks with Easton, and I look healthy.
I don’t have to worry about scrounging money together for rent.
I don’t have to worry about where my next meal will come from.
I don’t have to worry that I’ll be beaten.
Even though my emotions are a mess and my grief for Rachel is still raw, a sense of safety wraps around me, and it’s all thanks to Easton.
I step into the shower, and the warm water feels soothing. While I wash my body, I replay the kiss and conversation that followed for what feels like the millionth time.
My resolve falters, and I wonder if I’m making the right decisions.
I wish Rachel were here.
I close my eyes against the wave of sorrow hitting me square in the chest. With no one around, I give in to my grief and let my tears mix with the water. Every memory I have of Rachel flits through my mind. It’s still hard to believe she’s gone.
Eventually, my tears dry up, and I shut off the faucets. While I’m drying my body, I try to push all my emotions down.
God, I’m tired of overthinking everything.
My next session with my therapist is in a few days, and I plan to talk to her about my current circumstances. Maybe she’ll be able to give me some guidance.
Chapter 26
Nova
When I’m done showering and I step out into the hallway, I glance at Rachel’s bedroom.
Taking a deep breath, I walk inside, and when I smell her scent lingering in the air, my heart constricts.
Hi, Rach.
I walk to her dressing table and look at all the flash drives. Just needing to be close to her, I sort them into neat little stacks before I look through the envelopes.
Lainey’s 1st birthday without me.
Lainey’s 1st Christmas without me.
Lainey’s 12th birthday.
There are letters going up until Lainey turns twenty-one, and ones for when she starts dating, her prom, her wedding, and when she has her first child.
Rachel thought of everything.
When I look at the next envelope, it’s addressed to Easton, and the last one has my chin quivering.
Nova. Open after I’ve self-destructed.
I let out a sputter, something between a burst of laughter and a sob.
God, I miss your sense of humor.
With the letter in my hand, I walk to her bed and sit down on it. Folding my legs beneath me, I reach for the bedside table and grab the box of tissues. I place it on my lap before I open the envelope. My hands tremble as I unfold the page, and then I can’t read the words fast enough.
Hi bestie,
I’m sorry for the epic disappearing act I threw on you. Trust me, I didn’t want to leave you.
