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“I dig the pigtails.” I clear my throat when my voice nearly cracks on the last word. “I can say that, right?”
Not touching her—not loving her—feels like a sin.
She smiles, big and familiar, and my breath catches. “Sure. Thanks.” Her eyes travel the length of the dock as she stomps her feet against the thick, new boards. “This is amazing. These kids won’t even know how lucky they are to avoid the splinters we had to deal with daily.”
I force myself to chuckle. “Yeah.”
“It was nice of you to give Billy and the crew the day off.”
I nod, still contemplating a quick escape into the water.
She tucks a piece of flyaway hair behind her ear. “Are you, uh, coming to Damien’s party tomorrow?”
I think of the emailed invite I received yesterday, the complex feelings it evoked, and can’t help asking, “Do you really want me to?”
Her suddenly serious eyes lift to mine. “Yes, I do.”
“Then I’ll come. I hope Damien’s okay with an envelope full of money.”
She laughs. “I can guarantee he’ll be thrilled.”
I swallow. Clear my throat. Shift my feet like a nervous teen. “Celeste—did you really drive up here to ask me about the party? You could have texted me.”
Her shoulders sag. “No. I drove by your house, but your car wasn’t there, so I came here. I need to give you something I should have given you thirteen years ago. I’m sorry. I hope you can forgive me one day. I want…” She trails off, shaking her head, and reaches into her purse.
An envelope extends my way. Frowning, I take it. When I see my name—and the handwriting—on the front, I’m so shocked I barely register her fingers grazing mine.
“What is this?” I ask, my voice barely there as I turn the envelope over. It’s never been opened.
“I’ll understand if you change your mind about coming tomorrow,” she says in a rush. “It’s from Jer, obviously. He… well, he wrote it before he deployed. I’m sorry. So incredibly sorry. Lucas, I?—”
“Stop,” I plead. “Just stop a second.”
A cyclone of emotions whips through me, too many to name, most of them conflicting. I look into her eyes, glassy with tears, and I know one thing for certain: she doesn’t deserve the regret she feels.
“It’s okay, Peapod. I understand why you didn’t give it to me.”
She blinks and a tear rolls down her cheek. My hand itches to brush it away, to hold her, comfort her, but despite my words—which are true—my heart is an ice block in my chest. My fingers spasm, crunching the edge of the envelope.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers again before turning and jogging down the dock.
I watch her disappear through the line of trees, then obey the directive of my weak knees and sit. My legs swing over the edge of the dock, my bare feet grazing the cool water.
I open the letter. It takes three tries for me to read past the first words.
Hey man,
If you’re reading this, I’m either dead or we’re old as hell and laughing about me being dramatic. I hope it’s the second, but in case it’s not, I need you to know some things.
First, thank you. Thank you for giving me the chance to love her. I know you broke her heart for me. I know about the kiss (she told me after we were married). If you hadn’t left town, I honestly don’t know if she would have stayed with me in the long run. So thanks for being a dickhead and bailing.
I can hear you in my head right now telling me what an idiot I am, that she loves me, blah blah. I know she does. I’m a lucky sonofabitch. But it doesn’t change the fact she loved you first. I’m just grateful her heart was big enough for me, too.
Anyway, if you thought that was rough, buckle up.
You know what I want from you. What I’m going to ask. It fucking sucks to even write this, but I figure if the worst does happen, I don’t want to gamble on you pulling your head out of your ass without help. So here’s your help.
Love her, Lucas.
