There’s something in her tone I can’t quite place—not exactly envy, more like a hint of melancholy.
“Different doesn’t always mean better.”
She turns to look at me. “Don’t you get lonely living here all by yourself?”
“Sometimes. But now you’re here, so...” I scan Lizzy’s face—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips—searching for a hint of what she’s feeling.
Her eyes drop. “It’s just for the weekend.”
“I know.” I take another sip, letting the cool liquid slide down my throat. “But it’s still nice having you here.”
When she doesn’t respond, I decide to change the subject. “You want to watch a movie?”
Instead of answering my question, she looks up at me and cocks her head. “You said you wrote me letters. You know. When you were in Ireland.”
My breath hitches and my stomach tilts.Shit. I hadn’t planned on going there yet. So many times I’ve imagined what it would be like to have her read the letters my therapist recommended I write. Even though I never sent them. Even if it would help her truly understand why I chose not to speak to her after I left.
I clear my throat. “I still have them.”
“Can I read them?”
Her words come from so far out of left field, all I can do is stand there, stunned.
She wants to read my letters?
When I don’t answer right away, her face flushes and she stammers, “Fuck. I’m sorry. That was super invasive of me to ask. I shouldn’t’ve…”
“No!” The word bursts out louder than I mean it to, and I instantly lower my voice. “I mean. It’s okay. I was going to show you, eventually. You just shocked me, is all. Honestly? I didn’t think you’d actually want to read the ramblings of a fucked up, teenage kid.”
“Of course I do. I think it might help me understand. Maybe get some closure? Get rid of the static of the past that’s been pinging around in my head ever since you came back.”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling exposed. Those letters contain every raw emotion, every regret, every longing I’ve ever felt for her. They’re the most honest parts of me—parts I’ve never shared with anyone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, giving me a look that has my heart thumping an erratic beat. “I’m sure.”
Taking a deep breath, I set my beer down on the coffee table. “Wait here.”
I run upstairs to my bedroom, heart pounding as I cross to the walk-in closet. In the back, behind a panel concealing a large safe, I retrieve a worn leather box. My hands are actually trembling as I carry it back downstairs.
Silhouetted against the fading daylight, Lizzy has moved to sit on one of the leather couches. Legs tucked underneath her, she turns when she hears me approach.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “These are all of them.”
She takes the box, lifting the lid carefully as if she’s afraid it might break. “Wow. There are so many.”
“I wrote one almost every day at first,” I admit. Heat crawls up my neck at my admission. “Then it became more like once a week. And eventually, just when something big happened or when I... when I missed you too much.”
Her fingers trace the edge of the box. “Would it be okay if I took these up to my room?”
“Of course.” I hesitate. “Just... remember those were written by a confused kid who didn’t know how to handle his emotions. I’m not that angry kid anymore.”
“I know,” she says softly, clutching the box to her chest. “Neither am I.”
As she stands to leave, I fight the urge to reach for her, to ask her to stay and read them with me. But I know this is something she needs to do alone.
“I’ll be down in a bit,” she murmurs, already heading for the stairs.
