Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(63)

She flinched but didn’t speak.

“Not intentionally. I think, after talking to Poppy today, a part of me was running away from you. Jamie’s death scared me more than I let on. I ran because I was afraid I’d lose you. And it would have killed me.”

“Oh.” She stared at our hands, letting my words sink in. “I, um . . . oh.”

“I let my own fears drive me away. I isolated myself. And for that, I’ll always be sorry.” I kept a firm grip on her hand, not wanting her to pull away. “I’m sorry, Molly.”

“I get it,” she whispered. “It hurts. But I get it. It makes me wish that we had talked more.”

“Me too.”

“None of us really did. Me. You. Poppy. We lost Jamie and life went on. But we didn’t heal. We buried our pain and our fears because it was too hard to talk about.”

“I was a coward.”

“You were just doing the best you could. We all were.” She gave my fingers a squeeze, then unlaced our hands to go behind the chair again. She pushed me farther down the sidewalk, until the light was nearly gone and it was time to go home.

It felt like there was more to say. That one apology wasn’t enough.

So I’d give her others, every day until the heaviness in my heart was unloaded.

The house came into view and I looked over my shoulder again. “Thank you for all the work you did while I was in the hospital.”

“Like I told you the last four times you thanked me, it was nothing.”

Fuck, I hated this goddamn chair. I hated that she was behind me. That I couldn’t stand and look her in the eyes so she knew how sincere I was.

“It wasn’t nothing. It saved me.”

She smiled. “It’s a good thing you still keep all of your passwords written down on a sticky note in your desk drawer. I would have been lost without that. Also, you shouldn’t write down your passwords.”

“I’ll remember that for next time.” I chuckled. “One last question before we get to the house?”

“You sure are full of questions tonight. That must have been some talk with Poppy.”

It had been. It had been the conversation I’d needed to have for years. “Do you feel like I took Alcott from you? It was ours. And then it was just . . . mine.”

The wheels of my chair slowed. Then stopped.

I waited for her answer, my heart thundering.

“Yes.” It was no louder than the breath of wind whispering across my cheek.

I hung my head. “I’m sorry.”

“I loved that place. I don’t think I realized just how much I’ve resented you for pushing me out.”

“I didn’t do it intentionally. I swear.”

“It’s in the past.” She started us forward again, our leisurely pace gone as she rushed home. “We’d better call for the kids, otherwise they’ll stay at the playground all night.”

And with that, the door to the past slammed shut. Damn.

The kids were already inside when we got home. They were jumping around the living room wildly, excited to have spent some time with their neighborhood friends. Hours passed before they went to bed. Molly let them stay up later than usual since there was no agenda for the next day, though I suspected it was really because she didn’t want to talk to me.

It was after midnight and we were both spent by the time she helped me use the bathroom and get into bed.

“Molly?” I called before she could slip out of the room.

“I’m tired, Finn. I can’t take any more talking tonight.”

I sighed, nodding. “Okay.”

It wasn’t okay.

I wanted to hold her. To tell her that she was the most incredible woman I’d ever known. To ask her if she thought we might have the energy to give us another go. To promise I’d never stop loving her, that she’d owned my heart since the day we’d met.

Instead, I simply said, “Sweet dreams.”





- LETTER -





Molly,



Is this really what you want? Me, living in the loft at the office? You, home alone with the kids? Because what the actual fuck just happened?



I came home Friday. We got in a fight that lasted two days. I was tired of arguing. I was tired of you saying you needed space, so I packed a bag to spend a night at the office. You told me to pack enough for a week.



Fuck this. Fuck all of it. How can you be okay with me leaving? For a week? Do you even care?



I don’t think you love me anymore. How the fuck did that happen? So I’ll just sit here, alone in my office, writing another one of my fucking letters that don’t do a fucking thing but let me get some of this out. If I told you any of this, we’d just get in another damn fight.



You hurt me. You fucking hurt me. Maybe I should have packed enough stuff for two weeks.



Finn





Fourteen





Molly





“Today’s the day.” Finn’s physical therapist, Ashley, smiled at him. “Ready to get out of that chair?”

“More than ready.”

She clapped her hands together. “Then let’s do this.”