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Don’t take too long to write back. Hearing from you always puts me in a good mood.Later, gator,
GriffI sighed and put that letter back into its rightful envelope. So many feels.
Okay maybe just one more.
Taking another one out, I opened it and read.Dear Luca,
Listen to me. If there’s one thing I ever tell you that you actually believe, believe this: once a cheater, always a cheater. How do I know this? Because my fucking father is one, that’s how! I come from cheating stock.
So if you’re looking to get cheated on again, stay with that bloody loser you’re dating.
Did you hear that? That’s me fucking yelling from England! Do NOT give that fucker a second chance. I don’t care how sorry he says he is.
He doesn’t deserve you, Luca. He doesn’t.
He’s lucky there’s an ocean between us, because I would have broken his face for hurting you the way he did. I’d be in jail, and then my letters would come with a disclaimer that they’re being sent to you from a correctional facility.
Can you tell I’m mad? Because I’m fucking mad.
Anyway . . . (now that I’ve gotten that out) what else is new with you?
I have some news, actually. I joined a band. It’s with these guys from school. Don’t laugh, but it’s sort of like—a boy band. Except I’m much cuter than Harry Styles. But you wouldn’t know that because you haven’t seen me recently. Should we change that soon? Show me yours and I’ll show you mine kind of thing? Just kidding. No pressure. Just food for thought. I know you like to remain a mystery. And I sort of like that, too. (But for the record, if given a choice, I would like to see what you look like now.)
Write back soon.Later, gator,
Griff
P.S. Still cracking my knuckles over here.I shut my eyes and smiled.
There was only one letter I’d never read. It was the last one that had arrived almost a year after I’d stopped responding. By that time, I was so ashamed for not writing back in so long that I couldn’t even bear to read them anymore. I didn’t know at the time it would be the final letter.
I broke my rule and sifted through the pile looking for that one unopened letter until I found it. I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but I opened it anyway.
Nothing could have prepared me for what I actually discovered inside, though. Nothing.Luca,
Did you notice I left out the “Dear”? You’re not dear to me anymore. Because you fucking stopped responding to my letters. You’d better be dead. That’s all I have to say.
Wait. I don’t mean that. I would never wish you were dead. Ever. I’m just so fucking confused. I’m writing to tell you that this is the last letter you’re ever going to receive from me.
That’s a damn shame, because I could really use a friend right now, Luca.
My mother died.
I can’t believe I’m even writing that.
We found out two months ago that her cancer returned and that it spread. Everything happened so fast after that.
My mother DIED, Luca.
She’s gone.I couldn’t read what else the letter said because the ink was stained from his tears.
And now, without warning, my own tears were pouring out in an endless stream—tears I didn’t even know I had the capacity to make anymore.
An hour must have passed before I finally stopped crying my eyes out.
I hadn’t cried since Isabella died in the fire. I’d thought my tears were all dried up. Apparently it was just that nothing had affected me enough to make me cry since.
He’d lost his mother, and I didn’t even know.
I was certain now beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had to write to him. I owed him a full explanation of what happened to me and why I’d stopped responding.
Even if he continued to hate me after, at the very least he deserved an apology.
This couldn’t wait anymore.
I knew that I’d be up all night pouring my soul out to him.
I only hoped he could forgive me.CHAPTER 3
LUCAIt had been two weeks since I’d mailed the letter. Well, it was more like a book—several pages long. I’d explained all the details about the fire and my emotional state after and apologized for never having acknowledged his mother’s death, making sure he knew that I’d only opened the final letter recently after losing my dad. I told him about my anxiety issues—explaining agoraphobia in detail and how it wasn’t a one-size-fits-all mental health disorder. I wanted him to understand I wasn’t a total shut-in, that I loved the outdoors and could have intimate relationships. Honestly? I couldn’t even say what else I’d written. I’d stayed up that entire night until my heart was empty. In my head, I wasn’t writing to the guy who’d told me I sucked. I was writing to the Griffin I hoped was the same person I’d cared for so much.
