Page 122 of The Story Between Us

The letter took three tries.

The first was too defensive. The second was too desperate. The third—the one she finally folded and tucked into Emma’s notebook—was simple. Honest. Everything she couldn’t say to his face.

Nate,

I’m sorry. I should have told you about the notebook the moment I found it. I should have trusted you to decide what to do with Emma’s words instead of deciding for you. That wasn’t my call to make, and I made it anyway.

You were right about another thing—I do help too much. In fact, I’ve spent my whole life trying to be useful, trying to be needed, trying to earn my place. It took your anger to make me see how exhausting that must be. For me, and for everyone around me.

I have to go back to New York. There’s a meeting Sunday, and my job—whatever’s left of it—is on the line. I won’t be at the dedication tomorrow, and I’m sorry for that too. I wanted to see Emma’s Storybook Corner full of children. I wanted to see you read there someday.

I’m leaving the notebook on your porch. Emma’s ideas are inside—plot threads, character notes, pieces of the ending she never got to write. I don’t know if you want them or not. But they’re yours. They were always yours.

I hope you finish the book. Not for the deadline, not for the publisher, not for me—but for you. For Emma. For the story only you can tell.

I’m not your sister, but I think she would have wanted you to know: The ending doesn’t have to be hers. It gets to be yours.

Thank you for showing me Maple Lake. Thank you for the fudge and the hat and the dance and the kiss. Thank you for making me feel, just for a little while, like I was someone worth seeing.

I hope you find your way through the grief. I hope the storm passes. I hope⁠—

She stopped. Pressed the pen to the paper one more time.

I hope you write your happy ending.

—Livvie

The walk to Nate’s cottage took less than a minute.

Livvie moved through the trees on the path she’d walked a dozen times, the notebook clutched against her chest, her packed bag waiting by Aunt Lila’s door. She’d booked the flight already. Duluth to Minneapolis, Minneapolis to JFK. By tonight, she’d be back in her apartment, surrounded by other people’s manuscripts and a life that didn’t quite fit anymore.

The Craftsman was quiet. Curtains still drawn. No sign of movement inside.

She climbed the porch steps, her heart pounding. Part of her wanted to knock—wanted to see his face one more time, wanted to plead her case, wanted to fix this the way she fixed everything.

But that wasn’t how this worked. That wasn’t who she was going to be anymore.

She set the notebook on the doormat, propped against the doorframe, where he’d find it. Her letter was tucked inside, nestled between Emma’s words and Emma’s dreams.

She pressed her hand flat against the door. Just for a moment. Just to say goodbye.

Then she turned and walked away.

The drive to Duluth was long and quiet.

Livvie kept the radio off. Let the silence fill the car. Let herself feel the weight of what she was leaving behind—the lake, the festival, the mural she’d painted, the man she’d fallen in love with.

The fall colors blurred past her windows, beautiful and meaningless. The road wound through small towns and empty fields, carrying her farther and farther from everything she’d started to want.

He will rejoice over you with singing.

She held on to that. Turned it over in her mind like a stone, smoothed by years of her mother’s faith and her aunt’s wisdom.

She couldn’t fix Nate. Couldn’t fix her father. Couldn’t fix the mess at Pemberton or the career that might already be over.

But she knew who she was now.

Maybe that would have to be enough.