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My eyes narrow in confusion.
He adds, “Looking back now, it was probably the beginning of her illness…”
I suck in a breath, my chest tight. “You said your grandpa…”
Nodding, Chris looks away and says, “My mom took care of him, had to watch his decline like you and Josh are doing now. I was young, so I didn’t really understand it all. I think I was Tommy’s age when he passed. I don’t remember much of it, but I do know that it took a lot out of my mom. Almost ruined her.” He clears his throat, his voice lowering to a whisper. “Your grams was like a grandmother to us all after that visit. She’s important to the whole team. And so is Josh.” He turns to me, his eyes right on mine. “Josh—he’s kind of the soul of the team, Becca, and that makes you the heart of it.”
* * *
Josh looks up when I step out of the house later in the day, closing the door behind me, but he doesn’t say a word, just continues to land trick after trick on his skateboard. His hands, his legs, his entire body moving, outlined by the light inside the open garage. I sit down on the porch steps, now only half of what they used to be because of the ramp, and I watch him. I watch the grace, the skill, the passion he has in what he does. Occasionally, he’ll land wrong, curse under his breath, and then try again. And again. And again. An hour goes by. Then two. Neither of us saying a word. Then he finally stops, grabs his board and takes it with him as he sits down next to me.
I type on my phone and show it to him. Why’d you stop?
He laughs. “Why’d you keep watching?”
I could watch you forever.
He looks up from the phone, his eyes meeting mine. I shrug, trying to play cool, but deep down, my heart’s picked up pace—reacting to the way he’s looking at me.
How do you know when Tommy wakes up? I type, pushing away the feelings creeping beneath the surface.
“He’s so used to me being out here, he just opens his window and calls out to me.”
Silence falls between us while I look up at the stars and get lost in his scent. He still wears the same cologne that drew me to him all those years ago. “You still wear that stupid ring?” he asks.
I frown and look down at my hand, at the ring he’d given me while we sat in this exact spot on my eighteenth birthday. “Not stupid,” I whisper, then swallow the ache. Not just in my throat, but in my heart. I’ve never taken the ring off. Not once.
He sighs while I drop the phone on my lap and spin the ring around my finger, my thumb skimming over the words I shoot like a girl. I pick up my phone and angle it so he can see what I type, It was one of the best nights of my life, Josh. Don’t take that away from me.
He blows out a breath, long and slow.
I change the subject. Chris told me that Grams made you guys drink rose petals in lemonade?
He laughs once, but it’s sad. “You know, I was thinking about your grams… about all these things she’d done when I was home that I didn’t pick up on at the time. That was one of them. Another time I came home and she was out in the garden in the back yard on her hands and knees. She said she was looking for her earrings. She doesn’t even have her ears pierced. The next day, she was out there again, and when I asked her why, she said her toothbrush was missing. We found it in her fridge.” He shakes his head, his mind lost in the memories. “I don’t know why I didn’t see things earlier, Becs. I’m sorry. I should’ve.”
I stay quiet a beat, replaying his words in my head. Where was her toothpaste?
“That’s what you got from that?” He laughs, his eyes narrowed and his head shaking in disbelief. “Where was her toothpaste?”
A giggle builds in my chest, then releases in silent laughter.
“Why are you laughing about this?”
I wait until I’ve settled, then type: It’s Grams—she was always a little nutty anyway, before any of this happened… so this just makes her more… eccentric? Besides, what would be the point of life if we couldn’t find laughter and joy amongst the turmoil?
Josh just stares, and stares, and then stares some more. Then he says, “I got your letter, Becs.”
And just like that, there’s no laughter, no joy. No logic to my actions. My eyes drift shut, my stomach dropping to the floor. It’s not as if I didn’t expect him to get it, but I’d hoped, prayed, that he wouldn’t bring it up. Regrets are stupid, and just like that letter, I can’t take either of them back.
He says, “I was only home for a few days before I had to travel again. Then I was gone three weeks. When I got back, it was there waiting for me. I knew it was from you, I could tell by the handwriting. But I couldn’t force myself to open it because I knew whatever it was, it would either ruin me, or I’d somehow ruin us.” He pauses a beat, his eyes distant, his hand rubbing his jaw. “For a week I carried that letter around, waiting for the right time, and it never seemed to come. It wasn’t until I was on a plane to Brazil for a tournament that I finally got the balls to do it. I almost made Chris turn the plane around when I saw what was in there. I was going to call you, message you, tell you that I’d gotten it, but I wanted to wait until I saw you in person.” He turns to me, his lips thinned to a line.
