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She immediately sees the framed picture I left on the nightstand. I snuck into the guest house when she was in the bathroom earlier. I just had to make sure the picture of her birth mom was waiting for her when she came in. Dia’s kept it by the side of her bed ever since Jesse gave it to her. I venture into our bedroom and lace my arms around her waist from behind.
“You framed it?” she chokes out, picking up the only picture she has of her mom.
“Yep. Stole it when you weren’t looking. I figured she was too important not to be framed.”
Dia stretches her neck to look at me, her eyes glistening with tears. “I… Thank you.”
We stay like that, with my chest pressed to her back, my nose buried in her hair for a moment I’d describe as lengthy and fleeting. I don’t want to let go of her.
I can’t.
Dia puts the picture down and spins to face me, her gaze drawn to the box of letters I haven’t been brave enough to open sitting on the desk. Dia isn’t the only one clinging to the memory of her mother. I couldn’t leave the apartment without taking my mom’s letters with me.
“Promise me something.” She wraps me into a warm embrace.
“Anything.” My arms close around her like muscle memory, and she rests her cheek against my chest.
“Promise me that you’ll read her letters. She was too important for her voice not to be heard.” Dia reuses part of what I said to her.
I’ve done nothing but try and garner the courage to open my mom’s letters since I found out they existed. I spent the last month scolding myself for being too weak to tear those damn envelopes open. Truth is, I’m not ready. I’m not ready, and I don’t think I ever will be.
“I promise,” I whisper.
I mean it.
At least, I want to mean it.
One day, down the road, I want to open that box and go through her letters one by one. I want to drink in her words, memorize her handwriting, and carry her essence with me. But that day isn’t today.
And it’s not tomorrow.
That day isn’t even next month.
But it’ll come.
It has to.
“Now, how about that shower? Better yet, how about a bubble bath?” Dia flings her arms around my neck, and I’m grateful for the light oozing out of her. Shit was getting depressing as hell.
“Do you even need to ask?” I peck her mouth.
She stiffens up, her smile waning as she glances around.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She pauses. “Do you smell something?”
I assume that her nose is acting up and bring a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “Are you saying I smell bad?”
She grins, shaking her head. “Forget it. I’ll get the bath started.”
I nod, and Dia kisses my cheek before trailing to the bathroom. I hear the water running in the distance, and then Dia tells me she’s going to go downstairs to grab the leftover nonalcoholic apple cider from the baby shower. I’m grabbing a pair of sweats from my bag when a phone chimes.
Dia’s phone.
She left it on the bed.
One message.
