Page 24

I took it from him and set it on the side table. “Trying. It’s not coming easy.”

“No. I guess it wouldn’t.”

I smoothed the paper over my knee. The little blue flowers stood out, like a mockery. “Nothing I say is good enough.”

“It won’t be.”

A rock settled in the pit of my stomach. Ghost was only confirming what I knew. “Then why am I bothering?”

He propped his beer between his legs and extended one arm along the back of the sofa. He looked like a guy about to enjoy a football game on the TV. His white tank was dingy, like it’d been through the wash too many times, and his gray sweats were threadbare, suggesting that Ghost was planning a relaxing day off. Alone. He’d worn jeans every time I’d seen him in public. And usually a plain T-shirt. Sometimes a button-down denim shirt or flannel over it when the weather was chilly.

“Forget it,” I said, stomach clenching. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this.”

I stood.

“Sit down.”

“No, I should just—I should go.”

“Sit,” he said gruffly. “You’re not a bother.”

I hesitated. His eyes bored into me, ordering me to obey. I dropped into the recliner like a puppet with its strings cut.

Ghost stroked his beard. “Nothing you say is good enough because there are no perfect words. It’s what’s behind the words that matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“Intent, Joey. Are you sorry about what happened?”

My jaw clenched. “Of course I am.”

“Then she’ll feel that when she reads it. Put your heart into the letter. Don’t worry if it’s not perfect. The goal isn’t to convince her of anything.” He paused, eyebrows lifting. “Unless you’re hoping for forgiveness?”

“No. Why would she? No, I just want her to know I regret it. That I’d change it if I could.”

“Then say that,” Ghost said. “Be sincere.”

I blew out a breath. “Okay.”

“Lay yourself bare. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. We have this instinct to hide our soft underbelly. If you want to give someone a sincere apology—one without excuses—then you have to expose yourself to them.”

I wet my lips. Gazed down at the letter.

I’d written that I was sorry. Written that I wished it had gone differently. But maybe that was the key. I hadn’t really shown myself to Dakota. I’d kept a distance there, assuming she wouldn’t want to know me.

But maybe…maybe my apology would only feel real if she did.

“Do you have a pen?”

Ghost stood and rifled through a big oak desk that dwarfed the other half of the room. It was too large for the living room—but it wouldn’t fit anywhere else. We’d found out the hard way when we’d helped Ghost move his things into this tiny trailer.

He pulled a pen from a drawer. “You need paper?”

I considered the pretty blue flowers that had taunted me. That tried to dress up my sins.

“Yeah, I think I should start over.”

He nodded and brought me a notepad that read Foster Bros Junkyard across the top. That seemed fitting. My life was in the junkyard. Maybe Dakota’s was too.