Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104037 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“Should I be worried?”
I wave him off as I flop back on the bed. “No, no. I prefer you to the battery boyfriend any day.”
Blinking slowly, he narrows his eyes back on me. “I, um . . . I wasn’t referring to that.”
“Oh?” I ask, feeling clueless as to what he is referring to while also realizing I just exposed myself for having a toy. Guilty as charged.
He opens the drawer again and pulls out a piece of paper. “I was referring to this. The ‘I love you’ note you’re storing with your boyfriend in there.” He doesn’t have to explain which note. It’s the only one that’s ever mattered. It’s the one I would save in a fire. It’s a key to my past and a letter from someone who loves me. I know every word and crease, bent corner, and size of that letter by heart.
My heart pulses in my throat. The last thing I want to do is upset the man who just asked me to move in with him. “Pfft.” I try to snatch it away, but he raises it above my head. “It’s ancient history, Laird.” I didn’t want him to see it, but I’m not willing to risk ripping it by grabbing it and ending up in a tug-of-war. He’s already seen it, so it’s out in the open now anyway.
Turning it over in his hands, he asks, “How ancient?” Out of all my belongings, I didn’t expect that would hold such piqued interest. Sure, I thought he might be jealous, but that’s not what I’m detecting in his tone.
Honesty is best. “It’s one of the few clues I have from that weekend in Austin.”
He hands it back to me with care. His eyes now on mine, but the lightness I sensed is gone. “What’s it a clue to?”
“My memories.” I reclaim the note, grateful it didn’t get damaged. This love letter is one of the few things that survived the accident. A pervasive tone has overcome the teasing, but the corners of his eyes soften, and I detect the slightest of smiles at the corners of his lips. “I probably shouldn’t be so attached, but I can’t help myself. It’s a clue to someone who loves me, loved me,” I add, “to the past I can’t remember.”
“You don’t remember who gave it to you?” He taps it with his free hand as if he can’t get enough of it either. Of all the things . . . “It must be someone who loves you very much.”
That encourages a broader smile from me. He’s such a romantic at heart. “No. I don’t remember who gave it to me, but I remember feeling the same as the message on it.”
“You were in love?”
“If it’s practical to think love can be embodied in physical things other than people and animals? This letter contains the emotion poured into the message.” I can’t lie. He’s had loss, so he understands mine. “Yes, very much.”
Looking back at the letter, it feels strange to hold a piece of my missing world in my hands. I’m so used to seeing it on the mirror, but touching it makes it more real somehow, as if I’d forgotten all over again.
But I don’t want to hurt Laird by toying with him or make him resentful by pinning him against my past. I return it to the drawer and close it. He’s more important than a piece of paper.
When I kiss his cheek, his mind has seemingly gone elsewhere. “Hey, I love you.”
“I know. I’m not competing with a piece of paper, but I know you have memories trapped in that beautiful brain of yours, and in your heart. I want to help you.”
“You’re helping me every day. You’re helping discover that life can be beautiful after something so tragic. You gave me hope, Laird. You gave me love. I still don’t even know why or how it happened so fast. It just did, and I’m here for it.” I smile, feeling so much better knowing he’s okay.
Capturing me before I lie back down, he asks, “What memories have you had so far?”
“Not a lot but more than two handfuls.” I lie down, ticking through them, needing to hear them out loud in hopes of breathing life into them again.
When he climbs back into bed, he holds me. I’m overwhelmed by how safe I feel in his arms. He gives me the freedom to ask what I’ve always wondered. “Have you ever wondered what happens to the misconnections? What if I was never supposed to be with the person who wrote the note? What if it’s like you said, and life is how it’s supposed to be?”
I angle to look up at him when he’s too quiet for my liking. Sorrow returns to him like an old friend, overtaking his eyes. “You may never remember, Poppy. And we might have to be okay with that.” My whole being hurts. The pain in my soul too much for me to handle alone. I lie against him, resting my head on his chest. From the deep exhale, I can tell he’s weighed down as well.