Page 19

“To me?”

“No, to the fucking Pope.”

I shoot him a look.

He rubs the back of his neck.

“Sorry.”

I unfold the paper.

The handwriting is unmistakable.

Messy. Slanted. Familiar.

The date at the top is three months after the accident.

I survived, Pumpkin. But I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do with that.

My throat tightens.

I read the next few lines.

They keep telling me I’m lucky. Lucky to be alive. Lucky I can walk again. Lucky I remember my own name most days.

Doesn’t feel much like luck.

I dreamed about you last night. You were sitting on the back of my bike, laughing because I missed a turn. For a minute, I forgot everything that happened.

Then I woke up.

I lower the letter.

Grayson is staring out the window.

“You wrote to me?”

“Sometimes.”

I look at the stack.

“Sometimes? Gray, there must be fifty letters here.”

“Didn’t count.”

“Why didn’t you send them?”

His jaw tightens.

“Didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

I stare at him.

“Are you serious?”

He shrugs.

“Seemed like a safe assumption.”