The Letters (Carnage #4)(21)

Boom. There it was, the very last of my will to live leaving my body.

“Thanks, Kitten, thanks for that.”

I turned and walked away, leaving my love and my life at Georgia’s feet.

I grabbed a couple of bottles of bourbon from the bar downstairs and took them home with me. I’d almost finished the first one by the time I’d pulled up outside the wine bar.

When I got to my flat, I went straight to my bedside chest of drawers and found an old contacts book.

All it took was one call. One call, and all of my hard work to get and stay straight the last few years went to shit. What did it matter? I had nothing to live for anyway. If I died, I died. Anything was better than thinking, than remembering her.





CHAPTER 8


Georgia

I’m not sure what wakes me, probably the turmoil that I’ve got going on in my head right now.

This weekend has been horrible and it is all my fault. I thought I was ready to finally have a read through all of Sean’s old letters. I was wrong. It isn’t just about the words they contain, it’s a combination of hurt, anger, and guilt. It would’ve all been so different if one of us had just reached out to the other. Our lives would have taken such different paths if we hadn’t remained apart for those four years.

But then what?

Where would Cam have fit in the picture if Sean and I had married and started a family at eighteen like we had planned? Would I have had him in my life? Would we have still somehow ended up together? Would our children even exist if Sean hadn’t died? I always thought I would have given anything for Sean to still be alive, but I would never give up my family and what I have with Cam.

So what does that mean? What does it say about me as a person? A wife and mother?

I am so sick of it all going around in my head. I am driving myself nuts, so I’ve no clue how Cam must be feeling having to watch me struggle with all of this. Again.

I had never doubted us or the strength of our relationship until yesterday. When he didn’t get up to take the kids to dinner with me, I really thought he’d finally had enough of me and my meltdowns. I made excuses to the kids about him being tired and forced my food down when we got to the restaurant. I smiled and joked with the kids the entire time we were out, but on the inside, I was falling apart.

On the drive home, One Direction’s “History” came on the radio. I am just grateful that the car is dark and the kids are too engrossed in their phones to notice my tears.

I couldn’t lose him. I wouldn’t survive without his love. I went over a hundred scenarios in my head, considering different ways to convince him not to leave me.

I’d drunk a bottle of wine once I got home and the kids had gone to their rooms. When I finally plucked up the courage to go upstairs and face him, I found him still in our bed and in the middle of a nightmare.

He’d told me it was jetlag. He tried to reassure me that he was fine and that we were good, but I wasn’t convinced.

I slide my leg across to Cams side of the bed to find it cold and empty. The surge of adrenalin that happens when the self-doubt I’d been suffering from makes a rapid reappearance, makes my stomach churn. I get up and go to the bathroom, before grabbing a T-shirt that Cam left hanging over the back of the chair and put it on. God, I love the way he smells. He has a half dozen different aftershaves in his bathroom cupboard, but the Givenchy he’s been wearing since we first met is still my favourite.



I pad down the stairs barefoot and along the hallway to our family room.

Empty.

I make my way back down the hall to Cam’s office, which is also empty. It’s as I’m backing out that I notice a thin sliver of light coming from under the door to my office.

Fuck!

There’s only one reason he would be in there, and it not so that he can add himself to the kid’s growth charts pencilled on the wall.

My husband is an inherently nosey person. He, Marley, and Lennon often have conference calls about juicy bits of gossip they may have heard about someone we know. I kid you not, Ash, Jimmie, and I have nicknamed them T. M. and Z. They are as up on the gossip as my girls. For someone who doesn’t “do” social media, Cam still manages to know the names of every one of those Kardashian kids.

I push at the door with my fingertips and it opens silently.

He’s sitting at my desk with his back to the room, a stack of Sean’s letters to the side of him, two sheets of paper in one hand, and a crystal whiskey tumbler in the other.

It’s three in the morning. My husband is sitting in my office, reading the words of love, Sean, my now dead husband had written for me, whilst sipping on whiskey.

For me? Is that really the right term? He’d written them to me, but I’m not sure he ever planned for me to see all of them. Some, maybe. But there were a few I think he may have removed before letting me have a read.

I guess I’ll never know.

Cam takes a sip of his drink and lets out a long sigh.

“What are you doing?” I ask him quietly.

The glass he has in his hand jerks in surprise at the sound of my voice, and I watch as the amber liquid sloshes from side to side. As the light from my desk lamp catches it, I can’t help but to compare the colour to Sean’s eyes. His were brown, with little flecks of gold, whiskey coloured. Cam’s are a rich, warm brown, looking almost black when he’s turned on or angry.