Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(60)

I’d come to Molly’s thinking I could hang out, and she’d be around if I needed some help. I figured the nurses at the hospital had been picky, not wanting me to do anything for myself. They poured me water and helped me in the bathroom because it was their job.

No, they’d just known what I hadn’t: I couldn’t do shit for myself.

Literally. I couldn’t shit by myself. I couldn’t get myself out of the chair and onto a toilet without someone to help me keep my balance.

I figured that out the first night I was here. Then the next morning, I learned I couldn’t shower on my own or brush my teeth on my own. The only thing I was really capable of was wheeling myself around. Oh, and I could eat cold cereal because it was easy to “make” with one hand.

I would have been fine eating Rice Chex and Honey Bunches of Oats for a few months, but the women in my life wouldn’t let me skip these delicious leafy greens. They were trying to turn me into a rabbit.

Poppy mixed my salad with the dressing, a generous amount, thank God for that, and then grabbed a fork from the kitchen. With it all plated, I dove in, grimacing at the first few bites.

Fucking kale.

At least the dressing was Poppy’s signature ranch, my favorite. She’d brought enough that the salad was edible.

“Are you working today?” I asked.

“Yeah. Molly is covering the lunch hour so I could stop by and say hello.”

“I’m glad you did.”

She touched the tip of my fingers sticking out of my cast. “So am I.”

I set down my fork, wanting to give her my full attention. I’d actually been waiting for one of these quiet moments with her. There were things I hadn’t had a chance to say at the hospital or here because there were always too many people around.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” she asked.

“For scaring you. For the accident. I know it brought up a lot of old memories.”

“Oh.” Her eyes dropped to the table. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.”

Her eyes flooded with tears, but she blinked them dry, forcing a smile. “I’m okay. It scared us all. I don’t want to lose you too.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I promised.

“Good. How are you feeling?”

My first response was to tell her I was great. That things would be fine and set back to rights in no time at all. But I was so tired, I didn’t have the energy to lie.

I met her gaze. “I’m struggling.”

“With the pain?”

“Yes. No.” I blew out a long breath. “With the fact that I almost died two months ago. I almost left Kali and Max without a dad. And Molly . . .”

My throat closed just thinking about it. I’d worked so hard for so many years to prepare for this kind of accident. To make sure that if something happened to me, they’d be covered.

I’d been blind to what really mattered.

We’d gotten another letter two weeks ago. Molly and I had both read it and then put it aside. There hadn’t been much to talk about. I had been failing her. I’d known it. I’d written it. But I hadn’t done a damn thing to change it.

“You know what’s really messed up?” I asked Poppy. “I’m glad.”

“That you lived?” she teased. “Yeah, we are too.”

“No, that it happened. I had a lot of time to think in the hospital. I had a lot of time to realize . . . I ruined my life, Poppy.”

“What? No. You didn’t. Once you get out of this chair and start physical therapy, you’ll be walking in no time. Your arm won’t be in the cast forever. You didn’t ruin your life.”

“No, I don’t mean the accident. After Jamie.” I swallowed hard, knowing this conversation would be difficult to have with Poppy, but she was the only person who might understand. “I ruined my life after Jamie died. I sabotaged it.”

“What do you mean?” When I didn’t answer, Poppy thought about it for a moment. Then she got it. “Oh. With Molly.”

“Not on purpose. Molly told me a while ago that you talked to her about the divorce. She told me you were worried that you were the reason we broke up.”

The color drained from Poppy’s face. “I was, wasn’t I?”

“No. Not you. It was me. Jamie’s death spooked me. I started working so hard. I wanted Molly and the kids to be set if something happened to me. And it just snowballed. I knew I wasn’t doing my best as a father and husband. But I was so focused on Alcott, on making sure I could . . . die.”

“Oh, Finn.” Poppy’s eyes filled with tears.

“I lost her. And I think . . . I think I pushed her away.”

“Not just because you were scared you would die.”

I nodded, wanting her to speak the thought I couldn’t. The thought that had plagued me as I spent days staring at the ceiling of my hospital room.

“You pushed her away because you were scared she would die.”

I dropped my head, my vision blurred with tears. “I ruined my life. Because I was scared that I’d end up—”

“Like me.” Poppy wiped a stray tear from her eye then took my hand. “You were scared you’d end up like me.”