Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(66)

“It’s stunning.” Maybe that was why I’d been able to tune out the world so quickly and actually think for a change. Finn’s work created serenity.

I took one last look at the garden then turned to Finn.

Finn, on crutches.

“No more chair?”

He grinned. “Nope. Ashley is going to take care of returning it to the hospital. I get to use the crutches for a few weeks and then we’ll see if we can get rid of them and the boot altogether.”

“I’m glad. I know you were sick of the chair.”

“The only thing I’m going to miss are our nightly wolls.”

“Me too.” I smiled. “Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

We walked slowly back to the van. Without the wheelchair, Finn could actually sit up front with me, and it was so nice not feeling like his chauffeur.

“So, Ashley was pretty excited today.” I glanced over at Finn in the passenger seat to gauge his reaction to her name. There wasn’t much, no shy smile or gleam in his eyes.

“She thinks I’ll make a full recovery. She’s been hesitant to say anything, but she told me that today. Even my ankle.”

“Really? That’s great.”

The doctors had been worried that Finn’s leg wouldn’t heal correctly because of the severity of the breaks. They’d also cautioned that he could have lifelong problems with his knee. They knew he’d be able to walk again, but they were worried he’d develop a limp. He hadn’t said anything to me, but I knew Finn had been worried it could impact his work and ability to go hiking.

His relief was palpable in the confines of the van.

“You know the first thing I’m going to do when this boot and cast come off?”

“Take a shower without Saran wrap?”

“Smart-ass.” He chuckled. “I’m going to take you and the kids to Fairy Lake.”

It was an easy hike. Not really a hike at all other than descending some stairs made out of railroad ties. But Fairy Lake had been a regular picnic spot for us when the kids were tiny.

That was when Finn hadn’t worked every weekend.

When we’d been a family and acted like one too.

“Finn.” I sighed, my worries from earlier plaguing my mind again. “We need to start preparing the kids.”

“For what?”

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. “For when you go home.”

“Oh.” He turned to look out his window. “Right. Okay.”

We drove the rest of the way home in silence. When we pulled into the driveway, Finn got out without needing help. But before he closed the door, he paused. “Do you want to keep the van any longer?”

“No.” I was ready to drive my Jeep.

“I’ll have someone come pick it up.”

“All right.”

He slammed the door and walked to the house, using his crutches like he’d had them for days, not less than an hour. When the front door closed behind him, I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel.

What was he mad about? He had to have known this was coming.

I shook it off and took a hair tie from my wrist. I went to pull my hair up, tying it around the curls, but it snapped.

“Damn it.”

Another broken hair tie. My heart sped up. My shoulders dropped.

It’s just a hair tie, Molly.

Maybe my broken hair ties weren’t a bad omen. Maybe this was a good thing. The last time one had broken had been at the hospital, and we’d gotten good news that day. Finn was alive.

I pulled my backup tie from my wrist, glad when it held strong. When my curls were secured in a mess on top of my head, I picked up everything that was mine from the van.

There wasn’t much. My purse and a water bottle. Max had dropped a candy bar wrapper on the floor next to where Finn’s chair had been. I grabbed it and the keys then got out. With my purse slung over my shoulder, I made my way to the mailbox.

It was empty, except for one unstamped letter.

Damn it. Not today.

The letters had stopped while Finn had been in the hospital. Whoever was sending them had to have known we weren’t equipped to deal with them during those weeks. I still wasn’t, but I didn’t have a choice.

There was no energy left for a letter today. And that broken hair tie was a sign this one wouldn’t be gushing about my amazingness.

I opened the letter cautiously, glancing around the street to make sure I was alone, then I read Finn’s words.

His angry, bitter words.

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

My hand came up to my chest, rubbing the ache behind my sternum as I read those words scribbled before his name.

In the end, he should have packed enough for forever. Finn hadn’t come home after that.

I stared at the page, shocked by its severity. The harshness. The letters before had been painful. They’d hurt.

This was the first one where I got angry.

How dare he say I hurt him? He’d broken me. He’d shattered me to pieces the day he walked out our front door with his weeks’ worth of clothes.

Fuck him. Finn didn’t get to write this letter. He didn’t get to send his words into the universe in a way that gave me no chance to defend myself. He certainly didn’t get to say this was entirely on me.