Page 92 of I Wish I Would've Told You

It's not a direct letter, though.

It’s this month’s “Pray for Tully and Scarlett” update from my old church.

“Not that one,” he says, handing me a pink envelope. “This one.”

I take it and stare at the words in fucking disbelief.

Dear Easton,

This is the last letter I’ll ever write to you.

My sister is now moving into another state of recovery at the Harriet Long-term Care Facility, but we’ve spent the past several months reconnecting and getting to know each other better.

It’s been hard opening old wounds, but the late night conversations and tears are worth the laughter that comes in the morning.

We’re starting a new chapter of our lives together, with new boundaries, and new dreams, and we think it’s best if we close the chapter on this one.

Scarlett wants you to know that she’ll always love you, but she doesn’t want you to write back. She asked me to include a final question, and she wants you to know that she chooses option B.

Question:

If you couldn’t be with the love of your life because doing so would hurt the both of you in different ways, but you never wanted to love anyone else, what would you do?

A. Try to be with him anyway. Love is a hundred times stronger than fate.

B. Write him one (or two) final letters and tell him how you feel, but make it clear that you have to move on in different directions for now.

C. Ghost him. He’ll eventually get the point.

I Wish You Well,

Tully

There’sno way she means this shit…

48

Easton’s next letter arrives on a Saturday, tucked between an overdue internet bill and a gardening brochure. Addressed to “You, I’m So Sorry,” it’s as if it pained him to pen my name.

My first thought is to pretend it never came, to toss it out with the ads for tools I’ll never buy since I told him not to write me back, but curiosity has a strange way of overpowering common sense.

Tearing the flap open before I can think things through, I slowly drown under the weight of his words, and within seconds my tears are soaking the page.

With every sentence, the past returns to me frame by frame, and before I know it, I’m sinking to the floor and wishing I could tell him the truth.

But it’s too late.

Far too late…

49

EASTON

Two months later

“Inmate 56724, Easton Rush!” A guard yells in front of my cell on a Saturday. “Inmate Rush?”

“Yeah?” I sit up from my bed.

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