A Thousand Letters(17)

She smiled sadly and placed her hand over mine. "It's mine too."

"But Sophie's going to need a lot of help, and we … we don't have very much time left with him. So maybe, if it's all right, it wouldn't be a bad idea to cut back to just a day or maybe two rather than three?"

Cam nodded once, standing up a little straighter, seeming relieved to have contributed. "That'll be just fine — let's do one day, and you can pick up if you need to get away. Any preference on days?"

"No, whenever you need me most is fine."

"Deal. And if you need to take off, just let me know."

I smiled. "Deal."

We parted ways, and I headed into the back to put my stuff in my locker, then clocked in, picked up a box of books at the register, and began walking around the store to put them away. It was a quiet morning, as mornings there usually were — afternoons and evenings were the busy times. I'd heard, at least, since I was always at home with the kids. Cam threw themed singles nights to try to mix up the comic book boys and romance girls, and they were a smash. She'd been trying to get me to come to them since she'd hired me, her requests bordering on relentless. It made me smile — I thought she might actually die of happiness if I found a boyfriend at one of her events.

Thing was, I didn't really want one. I should take that back — I wanted to eventually settle down, get married, have kids of my own. But for the time being, I was too busy and unsure of what I wanted out of life to commit to anyone, not that anyone had caught my eye.

I slipped Jane Eyre back in with her sisters and checked the next book, heading to its shelf, thinking about Wade.

It would be a lie to deny that he had something to do with my loneliness. With me. With everything.

But it wasn't that I hadn't been asked out by other guys— I had, even recently, perils of working in a bar, even if it was a bookstore too. But secretly I compared everyone to him, and no one could measure up. The way they made me feel, the things they'd say, it was just never right, never even close to what I'd had. Every date I'd been on ended up being all wrong. Or maybe I was all wrong.

I'd thought so much about why I couldn't move on, what it was about him that I couldn't forget. I didn't know that I believed in soulmates, but I believed in compatibility and chemistry. I believed in the feeling of being so tied to another person that you didn't want to be without them. I believed in love that doesn't die, mostly because I'd lived in that hell for seven years, regretting all the reasons we were apart, wishing for forgiveness, wishing I'd made different choices, used different words, just … wishing I'd done it all differently.

But wishing and hoping had given me nothing, only prolonged my loss.

And now, he was back. He was home. And he didn't want to see me, didn't want me there. It was clear in every muscle in his body, every molecule in the air between us — it only telegraphed anger and betrayal, even after all this time.

I placed JoJo Moyes where she belonged and walked around the corner for the Diana Gabaldon book in my hand. Outwardly, I was sure I looked perfectly fine, but inside, I was on fire, consumed by my losses. It was my version of a magic trick: it was easier to keep the truth to myself, because what could anyone else do? I carried the weight of my choices around with me always, and no one knew. No one needed to suffer along with me.

As I put away the rest of the books, I thought ahead to the afternoon when I'd see Wade again.

Sophie had asked me to come over to prepare the house for Rick's homecoming, and I would be there despite my fears, despite the warning that rang in my heart. I was torn between the want to be there for her and the knowledge that I wasn't wanted by him, opting in the end for Sophie, for Rick, for myself. I only hoped we would find a way to look past ourselves. But it was all up to him. It had always been up to him.



Wade

It was too quiet.

My sisters and I sat in Dad's library, rearranging the room for the hospital bed and equipment hospice had dropped off a few hours before. The only sounds in the room were the shuffling of books, the smoothing of sheets, the crackle and pop of the fire, and the occasional sniffle to betray what we were all thinking but couldn't say aloud.

This was the room where my father would die.

We'd spent the morning at the hospital with Dad and had sorted out the final details with hospice, then had come home to get everything ready for him. I'd moved out his heavy, mahogany desk — a relic passed down through generations along with the house, which had been in my family since it had been built — and we'd managed to create a space for the bed next to the window, leaving two armchairs and a couch, in case one of us needed or wanted to sleep in there. That was phase one.

Phase two was to fill the room with his most precious worldly possessions.

First and foremost were his books, which lined three of the walls. Thousands of books, some of which had lived in that room for nearly a hundred years, some Dad had acquired through his years of teaching literature, some that we'd given him as gifts. But those books fed his mind and soul through his entire life, and he'd be with them in the very end, even if he couldn't read them anymore. We'd read them for him.

Everything else was secondary, and my sisters were already planning what they'd bring down for him. We moved through our actions like ghosts, our thoughts turned inward, and we guarded them like we would a wound. None of us knew how to share our grief.