I watch her go, my heart hammering against my ribs. What if she hates what she reads? What if my words only make things worse? But it’s too late. The box is in her hands, and all I can do is wait.
Needing something to keep my hands busy, I head to the kitchen and start pulling ingredients from the fridge. Cooking has always calmed me. Something about the methodical process of chopping, measuring, and combining flavors grounds me when my thoughts start spinning out of control.
I decide on a simple pasta dish—something I learned to make in Italy while filming a romantic comedy a few years back. The chef on set had taken a liking to me and taught me a few tricks during our downtime.
As I chop garlic and onions, my mind trips over the fact that Lizzy’s upstairs reading through years of my unfiltered thoughts and feelings.
Those letters contain everything—grief over losing myparents, guilt over leaving without saying goodbye, my struggles as a kid living with grandparents I barely knew.
Then there’s the letters I wrote after I came back. A seventeen-year-old kid living in the same house as her. Sleeping in a bedroom down the hall. Those are the ones I’m having a hard time coming to terms with her reading.
I loved her. Even then. But—being the lost, angry asshole I was—I trampled down any residual feelings and stuck my dick in almost any girl in school that would let me.
Which was a lot.
Not much different than what I did trying to get her out of my head after moving here.
Flipping off the burner, I set the pan aside. It’ll keep for a while.
Not sure how long she’s going to be, I grab another beer from the fridge, trudge into the living room and turn on the TV.
An hour later, Lizzy still hasn’t made an appearance, so I head upstairs.
forty-one
Box clutched to my chest,I slowly make my way up to my room. The leather, worn from years of use, is smooth beneath my touch.
I set my beer on the nightstand and crawl onto the bed, getting comfortable up against the padded headboard.
Grabbing the throw blanket I’d used the night before to cuddle with, I settle in and open the box.
Inside, hundreds of letters are neatly stacked, organized by date. Most are in open envelopes with my name written on the front in Rowan’s handwriting—though it changes somewhat over the years, from the messy scrawl of a twelve-year-old boy to the more confident strokes of a young man.
My fingers tremble as I take the first one out. Dated about three months after he’d left, the envelope is soft and worn, as if it’s been read a hundred times.
Taking a deep breath, I take the wrinkled letter out and start to read.
Dear Sunshine,
My heart thuds.
Sunshine.
The sound of a sweet young boy’s voice fills my head as a core memory resurfaces.
“I love your laugh.”
My heart ka-thumps. “You do?”
Rowan shrugs and looks down at the grass, plucking a couple of blades from the ground. “Yeah. It’s what I imagine sunshine would sound like.”
His gaze flicks up and his neck flushes like it always does when he’s nervous before he shrugs again and looks away. “You know... if it could laugh.”
Shaking the memory away, I continue to read.
I miss you. I miss Logan, too. I miss my parents. I wish things were different. I hate it here. It’s cold and gloomy. My grandparents are nice, but I barely know them. I wish I could go back in time. I want to come home. You probably hate me. I guess that’s okay. It’s probably better anyway.
Love,
