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But I’ll take it, because Dr. Perry was right. I needed this closure. I needed the opportunity to listen to his apology and make my decision whether or not to accept it. I’m damn glad I read his letter, and now I know why my mom and sister have accepted things so much easier than I have.
They opened their heart way before I did and they forgave him. They accepted Andrew’s apology for what it was, they grieved the loss of their loved one and did what Daddy would want them to do.
Suddenly, the need to write Andrew Drexler back slams into me like a freight train, and I jump up, grab my notebook and a pen off my dresser, and drop back down on the bed. Opening up the notebook, I situate it on my knee. I’m ready to give my heart the closure that it needs, and I as I transfer the words from my head to my heart and onto paper, I realize that it wasn’t really closure that I needed, just love. Because the love of my family and my love for my dad ultimately led me to be able to forgive.
Dear Andrew,
I forgive you.
Thank you for serving our country. Thank you for your letter of apology. I hope that you’re able to find the same peace that I have.
Sincerely,
Katie Devora
“Break Your Plans”—The Fray
“DEVIN?” A DULL BUZZ IS crackling through the line, and that coupled with the noise coming from my living room makes it hard to hear. Pushing up from the couch, I hold my hand over the receiver. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper to the room full of cackling women.
Mom and Bailey both smile and nod, but leave it to Maggie to open her big ol’ mouth. “Who’s on the phone?” she asks as she refills everyone’s wine glasses.
“Devin—”
“Oooh, Devin,” she croons before I even finish. Rolling my eyes, I walk out of the room as she yells, “No phone sex. It’s not polite while you have company over.” I hear my mom and Bailey crack up just as I shut my bedroom door.
“Devin?” At first I think I lost him—a dropped call or something—but then I swear I hear him breathing through the phone. “Devin? Are you there?”
“Katie.”
“Hey! I thought I lost ya.” Yanking the covers back on my bed, I climb in and prop myself up against the headboard.
“Um …” Devin clears his throat. “My day … it, uhh … shit.”
His voice is too gentle, his thoughts too scattered, and the hairs on the back of my neck instantly stand up. “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are your men okay?” I ask, pushing myself upright as though it’ll help me hear him better. My body tenses as I wait for his answer.
“No,” he breathes. I hear rustling as though he’s moving around or running a hand over his face. “I mean, yes. I’m okay, and my men are okay.”
“Oh, good,” I say, feeling my tightly coiled muscles relax.
“But I do have something to tell you.”
“Looks like we’ll be on the phone a while then,” I say, settling back against the bed, “because I’ve had one hell of a day, and boy, do I have some stuff to tell you. But you first.”
“My mom died.” His words come out flat and completely lifeless, and it takes a couple of seconds for my mind to process what he said.
“What?” I gasp, flinging myself out of bed. “Oh my God, Devin.” Tears spring to my eyes and I shake my head. “I’m so sorry.” My heart aches, not because Josephine is gone—as bitchy as that might sound—but it aches for Devin. She may have been a shitty mother, and I had hopes that Devin would be able to find peace where she is concerned, but she’s still his mom and now that’s no longer an option.
He doesn’t respond, although I’m not really sure what I expect him to say. I know the numbness that he’s probably feeling right about now. Hell, I’ve been there—and not that long ago. “What can I do? I want to help. Please tell me what I can do.”
Devin sucks in a breath and I swear I hear him sniff. That sound absolutely breaks my heart. Closing my eyes, an image of a ten-year-old Devin pops into my head. We were sitting by the creek and he was crying because of something his mom said, and I can picture him now, a grown man grieving the loss of the woman who’s caused so much pain in his life. She doesn’t deserve his tears.
“I’m going home,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “I get a four-day leave.”
He’s coming home? Oh my gosh, he’s coming home! “You’re coming home.” It’s not a question, just something I repeat to convince myself that what I heard is true. Excitement bubbles up inside of me, and despite what he just told me about his mother, I can’t stop the smile from erupting on my face.
“I’ll be home early Friday.”
“Okay,” I breathe. My mind instantly starts making a list of what I have to do to be able to go see him.
