Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(39)

“Oh, lord.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Not my finest moment.”

“No.” I reached out and took her hands away, keeping hold of one. “It was perfect. That was the first time I’d laughed in weeks.”

That food fight had reminded me of Jamie. He would have done that, started a food fight to defuse a situation. Maybe that was why I’d joined right in, tossing a bowl of Caesar salad in her face at the same time she’d swatted at me with the loaf of French bread.

We’d collapsed together in the kitchen, laughing hysterically, Bexter and his towering trees forgotten. Then we’d made love on the floor, surrounded by our discarded clothes and uneaten dinner.

That was the night we’d made our Kali.

“Things were better after that.” We’d talked all night, and we’d started doing things together again, rather than dividing things up. And we’d gotten real with Poppy.

We flew my parents down to see her again. They’d been calling every day, but on the phone, they hadn’t seen how bad things had gotten. Then we all sat her down and told her how worried we were. Poppy felt awful. She felt guilty. Mom and Dad asked her to move home to Alaska and she thought about it.

But then we told them we were pregnant. It was early, but we were too excited not to share the news.

“It was Kali,” Molly said. “I think she would have gone to Alaska with your parents if not for Kali. She wanted to be a good aunt. It gave her something to smile about.”

“It was the turning point.”

So how had things gotten so bad again? How had we found ourselves in more fights? More arguments?

We both stared at the letter again, the quiet settling around us like a heavy cloak. Was she onto something? Had Jamie’s death been the beginning of our end?

I refused to believe it. I wouldn’t pin this on him.

That funeral had been one of the hardest days in my life. But I made it through. I stood at the podium at the church so full of people there was barely room to stand in the aisles, and I talked about Jamie. I told a room crowded with his friends and family how the two of us had bonded over our shared love of cold beer and greasy cheeseburgers. I talked about the time we’d gone skiing together and had to be rescued by the ski patrol, because we’d convinced one another that the out-of-bounds markers had been put up wrong.

I talked about how he’d been a goof on the outside—how his ability to lighten a room had been unparalleled—and that on the inside, he’d had a heart of gold. That he’d loved nothing more than making the women in his life smile. His mother. And his wife.

I stood in front of hundreds but spoke to only one.

To Molly.

Because, like I’d known in that letter, the only way I could make it through that day was by keeping my eyes on her.

Jamie’s death wasn’t what had started our downward spiral. I refused to believe it.

“I’m not blaming Jamie for the end of our marriage.”

“Finn,” Molly said gently. “That’s not what I’m saying. We broke. Things got hard and we didn’t stick together. And I know this seems strange, but I needed this letter. I needed a reason.”

A reason why we’d ended.

“He wasn’t the reason,” I said firmly.

She closed her eyes. “That’s not what I’m saying. I loved Jamie. I miss Jamie. But you can’t tell me things didn’t change.”

No, I couldn’t.

“We need to figure out who’s sending these letters.” I stood from the chair, pacing the length of the table as I changed topics.

“Did you talk to your mom?”

I nodded. “It’s not her or Dad.”

I’d gone over last week and sat down with them both. Then I’d begged them for the truth. My parents didn’t lie to me, so when they said it wasn’t them, I believed them.

It hadn’t been easy to tell them about the letters. Or Poppy, for that matter. I didn’t want to explain why I’d written them, let alone kept them. But my desire to stop the letters from coming to Molly’s mailbox was more than the desire to hide my vulnerability where she was concerned.

Thankfully, my family hadn’t prodded. They’d let me get away with a vague explanation and then promised they weren’t involved.

“It’s not Poppy. It’s not your parents. It can’t be the kids.” Molly sighed. “So we’re back to square one.”

I nodded. “Who else could it be? Who else would have found them in my closet?”

“Cole?”

“I don’t think he’s ever been in my bedroom.” I ran a hand over my face. “I’m out of guesses.”

“I might need to start staking out my mailbox.”

I stopped pacing. “That’s not a bad idea.”

“I was joking.”

“Why?” I went back to the table, sitting by her side. “The kids go to Alaska next week with my parents. They’ll be gone for two weeks, so I don’t need to be sneaking around. Let’s stake out the mailbox.”

My desperation was showing, but I didn’t care. I knew what was coming. If Molly did too, she’d be as anxious as I was to stop it.

“Let’s start with Cole,” she said. “Then we can evolve to night-vision goggles and watch in shifts.”