Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(36)

“Right,” I agreed, but something about her declaration didn’t sit well. We weren’t getting back together. So why did her words sound so wrong?

“How are my lips?” Molly asked as she applied some lip gloss. “Does it look like we were kissing?”

“No, you’re fine. Let’s go.” I shook off the strange feeling and led the way out of the office and into the kitchen.

Poppy was right where I’d left her, standing at the table with a smile on her face as she filled small jars with cornbread mixture.

“Hey, you got a sec?” I asked her.

“Sure. What’s up?”

I looked at Molly. She gave me a nod to go ahead. “We need to talk to you about the letters.”

“Letters?” Poppy’s forehead furrowed. “What letters?”

“The ones you’ve been putting in my mailbox,” Molly said. “The ones from Finn.”

“Uh . . .” She shook her head, clearly not tracking with us. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Poppy. Just fess up so we can talk about it.”

“I’d love to ‘fess up,’” she said, adding the air quotes, not happy that I’d all but called her a liar. “But I swear I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Really?” Molly asked.

“Yes.” Poppy crossed her heart. “Promise.”

She was telling the truth. Poppy wasn’t only my sister, she was my best friend. She’d done that heart-crossing thing since we were kids. It was sacred to her, meaning she was telling the truth.

“What kind of letters?” Poppy asked.

I ignored my sister and looked at Molly. “If she’s not behind the letters . . .”

“Then who is?”





- LETTER -





Darling Molly,



I need you to tell me what to say. Jamie’s funeral is tomorrow and I’m supposed to speak. But I don’t know what to say. Here’s my problem. Well, one of them. I don’t want to ask you for help. I don’t want to put this on you. It’s hard enough to carry myself, so let’s pretend, okay? Let’s pretend you’ll read this and help me decide what to say.



Jamie’s been gone eight days. You keep saying how it doesn’t feel real. Maybe I’ll say that tomorrow. I’m sure everyone will relate. Except here’s the thing. It does feel real.



He’s gone. I had to call his parents and tell them. I’ll never get his mom’s scream out of my head. I’ll never forget the sound of his dad crying into the phone. I’ll never forget the look on Poppy’s face that night when I got to their house. Her light was gone. How is she going to survive this? I honestly don’t know if she will. But I can’t say any of that tomorrow, not when his family is expecting me to keep my shit together. Everything is different now.



I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Molly. I don’t want to tell funny stories about my best friend. I don’t want to talk about how much he loved my sister. Mostly, I’m scared I won’t know where to look when I’m standing in front of everyone. I guess to you. I’ll always look to you.



It doesn’t feel like I can do this right now, but I’ll look to you. And the right words will come.



Yours,

Finn





Eight





Finn





“Hey,” I answered Molly’s call. “What’s up?”

She sniffled. “I got another letter.”

My heart stopped. She was crying, which meant the letter was not a good one. Fuck. Me and my fucking letters. I couldn’t remember them all exactly word for word. I remembered their moods. About half had been written with a full heart. The other half, a broken one.

One of them was catastrophic. I knew Molly well enough to know that if she’d gotten that one, I wouldn’t be getting a phone call. She’d just never talk to me again. I’d thought about asking her not to open them, but it would be like telling a kid not to touch a bright, shiny toy placed right in front of them. Curiosity would get the better of her. Besides, I didn’t have that kind of pull with Molly. Not anymore.

She didn’t have to listen to me. She didn’t have to do me favors or trust me because I was her husband. That time had passed.

Which meant I really needed to find out who was sending them. In the past week, since we’d confronted Poppy, I’d studied the handwriting on the envelope for hours trying to place it but had come up empty. They were coming in order, and as long as that continued, I had a little time.

The last letter had shown up in Molly’s mailbox over two weeks ago. With every day that went by without another, I started to breathe easier, thinking maybe that was it. That maybe the person who’d stolen my most personal thoughts had reconsidered their actions.

But I’d used up my luck years ago, the day I’d found Molly.

“What did it say?” I stood from my office chair, already collecting my keys and wallet. I’d come in early today, hoping to get some office work done before noon. Then I was spending the day on field visits, reviewing a project bid with one client and meeting with another to get their signoff on the project we’d completed yesterday.