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Dancing with him for the first time at my Junior Prom.
The look on his face the first time I told him I loved him.
One piece of knowledge keeps trying to fight its way in, so I battle it the only way I know how—with more memories.
Running … laughing … riding horses … swimming in the creek … snowball fights … skinny-dipping …
I’m not sure how long the memories cycled through my head but obviously long enough to put me to sleep. When I wake up to the sound of the rooster crowing, I haul myself out of bed, slip on a pair of jeans, change into a bra and t-shirt, and run through the house. Ignoring calls from both my mom and dad, I scurry out the door in a hurry to complete my morning chores. It takes longer than I’d like, and it’s close to noon when I slide into my car and drive to Devin’s house.
Last night I apologized, and I know that he accepted my apology because we sat in my driveway for nearly an hour discussing all of the ways we could make things work between us. We talked about letters, payphones, calling cards … anything and everything we could think of to stay connected until he can come back. And even though I know we’re standing on solid ground, that knowledge does nothing to suppress this weird tingling I have in the pit of my stomach—a tingling that tells me something is off.
Speeding through town, I nearly break every driving rule known to man. I need to see him, to see for myself that we really are okay. I want to kiss him, hug him, make love to him and remind him that I will fight for this … for us.
When I pull up in front of Devin’s house, I shove the car in park, pull my key from the ignition, sprint up the front walk, and bang on the door.
No one answers, so I bang again … and again. Running around back, I head straight for Devin’s bedroom window. My feet skid to a stop when the first thing I notice is that the curtain is no longer hanging in front of it. My stomach rolls, and on shaky legs I walk toward his house. Leaning in close, I peer through the cracked glass of the window.
A sharp pain is carving its way through my chest, and I can’t help but imagine that this is my heart breaking. The pain rips through me, leaving a trail of shredded flesh in its path, and I clutch my hand over my chest. Panic grips me, adrenaline pumping through my veins, and I drop to the ground in a gelatinous pile of arms and legs. Curling myself into a ball, I bury my face in my arms and sob.
I lost a part of myself that day. Most people would say I was too young to really know what love is, but I disagree. Admittedly, I’m not sure what part of myself I lost—or how permanent the emptiness is—but I’m sure it must’ve been significant if the gaping hole inside my chest is any indication.
“I can’t believe this,” I whisper to no one but myself. What are the chances that his name would show up on a pen pal list that my psychiatrist sent me? It’s a passing thought, but one that I can’t ignore.
What if his name was meant for me to see? It wouldn’t surprise me, considering that Devin was always the one person who could help me work through my problems, however big or small they were … at least until the day he decided to leave me without a word.
Bitterness seeps into my veins, but I fight against it because there is no way in hell that I will allow Devin Ulysses Clay to have that kind of control over me, especially after the way he left. And now I have to write him, because if I don’t, I’m letting him win—I’m letting the bitterness win—and I’m tired of fucking losing.
No, there is no reason at all that I can’t write him a letter. A measly little letter. Who knows? Maybe it will be good for me.
Without giving it much more thought, I open up a Word document to start typing my letter when I remember what Dr. Perry said. “Damn it,” I mumble. Shutting down my laptop, I grab the paper I wrote the address on and the pen lying next to it.
Now what? My fingers twirl the pen as I contemplate what to write.
Fuck you! I laugh out loud when I scribble the words on the paper. Then I quickly scratch them out, because as much as I’d like to write that, I’m not that big of a bitch.
My phone buzzes on the end table next to me. Looking down, I see Wyatt’s name pop up on the screen. I tip my head back and groan. Something has shifted between us over the past several months, and if I’m being completely honest with myself, I’ve felt different about Wyatt for quite some time. As to what exactly has changed, I’m not so sure, but things are different … I’m different.
Before the accident, I seriously thought that it was all in my head. I figured I had just gotten too comfortable in our relationship and it was a phase that I would have to work through. After the accident, I began to realize that the love I feel for him is no different than the love I feel for my mom and Bailey. Now the love I felt for Devin ...
Whoa! Where the hell did that come from? Hell no, Katie, I tell myself. Not. Going. There.
My phone continues to buzz so I push the green button to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Hey. Did you make dinner tonight? I just got off work and can head over.” His voice sounds hopeful, and something about that just pisses me off. Hell no, I didn’t make him dinner. I didn’t even make myself dinner.
“No,” I snap, dropping my head into my hand. It’s been a long-ass day and I’m beyond exhausted, but I don’t need to take it out on Wyatt. “I’ve been busy all day, and I just got done at my appointment with Dr. Perry and now I’m—” I quickly cut myself off. Do I really want to tell Wyatt about the letter I’m going to write? He and Devin were never really on friendly terms, and I’m sure it would only create more waves in our already churning ocean of problems.
“Now you’re what?”
“I—uh … now I’m getting ready to make dinner. So if you want, you can give me about an hour and then head over. Is that okay?” Son of a bitch. I don’t want him to come over tonight. I don’t want anyone to come over tonight. I want to write this stupid-ass letter and then go to bed, dinner be damned.
“Are you okay, babe?” I can hear the concern in his voice and it annoys the hell out of me. I don’t say anything though, because I know Wyatt and he won’t pursue it. Hell, maybe it’s not even concern in his voice, maybe it’s agitation. Wyatt doesn’t understand what I’m going through and he’s done a good job at pushing everything under the rug. As much as I’m annoyed at everyone’s obsessive worrying, his lack of concern has put a huge strain on our already strained relationship.
“I’m fine. I’ll be fine. See you in an hour.”
“If you’re sure.” And that’s his go-to … if you’re sure. He never pushes for more; he’s just always happy to take the easy way out. Typical man. “See you soon,” he says.
I hang up the phone without saying goodbye. Pushing all thoughts of Wyatt out of my head, I turn to the notepad in my lap and stare at it … and then stare at it some more. I tap the pen several times against my mouth. I have absolutely no idea how to even start.
