Ro
My chest tightens when I read the next.
Dear Sunshine,
My therapist says if it’s too hard for me to talk to you on the phone, then I should write to you instead. Says I don’t have to send them if I don’t want to. She says I should still talk to Logan,though. Having a friend is important and it would be good for me to keep in touch. For my well being. What’s well being mean anyways?
Love,
Ro
The next one resonates even more.
Dear Sunshine,
I talked to Logan on the phone today. I could hear you talking in the background. It was too hard to hear your voice, so I told him I had to go. I miss you even more every day since I heard your voice. I’m gonna ask Logan to make sure our conversations are private from now on. That way, it doesn’t hurt so much.
Love,
Ro
About a year in, his words start getting angry. He writes about his new friends and how they like to cause trouble. Tagging buildings and breaking into cars. Smoking weed and cigarettes. They even snuck a bottle of vodka from one of his friend’s father’s liquor cabinets. Seems Rowan got so hammered, he woke up the next day in a stranger’s backyard, in a pool of his own vomit.
He writes about anger management. How his grandparents made him take acting classes as a form of therapy. It seems to work. Over time, his words start sounding less angry and more... hopeful.
Dear Sunshine,
I’ve decided I’m going to be an actor. I’m really good at pretending to be other people. Playing make-believe helps me forget about the past. My acting teacher says I’m a natural. Says that one day I could be rich and famous. I’m not sure if I believe him, but it feels good to hear it.
Do you remember that time we pretended to be pirates in your backyard? We used that old sheet from your mom’s linen closet as a sail and spent the whole day hunting for buried treasure and making each other walk the plank? I miss the good times we had. I miss you.
Love,
Ro
Tears stream down my face. As I read, Rowan’s transformation unfolds before my eyes. And the more I read, the more any residual anger I have for him recedes. He writes about getting his first real acting job at sixteen—just a small part in a local theater production, but he was so proud.
The letters stop right around the time his grandparents die. Before he came to live with us. Then they pick up again a couple of months after he showed up in my living room unannounced, looking smug and sexy asshit.
But that’s where I stop. Tears streaming, I reach for my now room temperature beer and down it in one go, grimacing when the bitterness hits my tongue.
It’s nothing short of the bitter guilt I’m feeling about how fucking selfish I’ve been. Sure most of my feelings were valid. Sure I was hurt. But he was hurting too. He’d lost so much more than I ever did. His parents. His grandparents. His friends. The only life he had ever known.
No sooner do I sit back and close my eyes then a subtle whisper of sound comes from the doorway.
When I turn my head and open my eyes, Rowan’s expression instantly switches from hope to concern when he sees my tear-streaked face.
“Iz—” His voice breaks as he rushes to my side and sits next to me on the bed. Warm hands cup my face, as his thumbs gently brush away my tears. “Are you oka?—”
Surging forward, I smash my mouth against his. His body stiffens in surprise for only a moment before he responds, his mouth moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
I pour everything I have into the kiss—years of hurt and longing, confusion and desire. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as a soft whimper escapes my throat.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily as I press my forehead against his.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry that I was so caught up in my own pain that I never stopped to think about yours.”
His eyes search mine, filled with cautious hope. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Iz. Nothing.”
