Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(67)

I stomped into the house, throwing my purse on the floor as I went in search of Finn. I found him on the couch, his laptop open and ready.

“Are you heading back to work now?” he asked.

“No.” I threw the letter at him. The envelope went sailing. The paper floated to the seat.

“Why—oh.”

I crossed my arms over my heaving chest, waiting for him to read the words. He had the decency to look apologetic after he reached the end.

“Fuck, Molly.” He hung his head and set the letter aside. “I’m sorry. I was angry.”

“So was I!” I shouted. The lid on my temper blew like a rocket, straight through the roof and into outer space. “You have no right to blame this on me.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“That’s no excuse,” I hissed. “That day was not my fault.”

“I didn’t mean it.” Finn huffed and grabbed a crutch propped next to him on the couch to help him stand. Then he tucked it under his arm to use it for balance on his bad side. “Can we talk about this without shouting?”

“No.”

“Molly—”

I held up my hand, silencing his protest. “Do you even remember what we were fighting about?”

“Kali ate those chocolate chips and got sick while you were outside.”

“Yes, I was outside. I was taking care of the house and the lawn. I was busy cooking dinners that you missed.”

“It was just a few dinners.”

“A few? You missed dinner ten nights in a row. Ten,” I spat. “And the month before those ten, you were hit or miss half the time. You were too busy taking Bridget out to dinner because you needed to catch her up on some designs.”

Even when he had come home, his laptop had been on constantly. I’d gotten used to falling asleep to the sound of him working in bed while I was curled up on my side. Alone.

I’d told him all of this. I’d shouted and screamed, hoping he’d listen. That for once, he’d put his wife before his job. Instead, he’d told me I wasn’t being supportive. He was doing this for us, after all. Building a legacy.

Three days. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. We fought for three days, barely able to look at one another. Finally, I told him maybe we needed to take a break. Our argument was just running laps. Every few hours, we circled back to the beginning and started all over again.

He left.

I put a smile on my face for the kids.

And that night, I cried until I was so exhausted, I eventually passed out.

My anger surged one last time before it morphed to pain. I blinked rapidly, not letting myself cry. But I felt the tears burn. They were the frustrated, uncontrollable tears of the heartbroken woman I’d been all those years ago.

“I’m sorry,” Finn whispered. He reached for my arm, but I took a step away.

“Why would you write that?” My voice shook.

“I was so angry.”

“How could you be angry at me? I just wanted you home for dinner.”

“It wasn’t you.” He shook his head. “I was angry. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was angry at myself. It was easier to take it out on you than to admit I was the problem. That you were right all along.”

“I—what?”

He shuffled closer, leading with his good leg. “You were right.”

I slapped a hand over my mouth, holding in a cry. Those words were so welcome. And much, much too late. My hand fell away, my chin dropped. “I don’t want these letters anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” Finn stepped closer.

The moment his hand touched my arm, I lost it. After weeks of doing everything for everyone, of stretching myself to the thinnest to keep him and the kids together, I broke.

The tears came. The sobs escaped. My shoulders shook.

I broke.

But for the first time in over six years, I didn’t break alone. Finn wrapped me in his arms and I cried. For the first time in years, I shared my tears with another person.

And when I was all cried out, I let Finn hold me.

“Please, Molly. I’m begging you. Don’t read them. Please, stop reading them.”

I stiffened. “How many more are there?”

“Promise me you won’t read them.”

I pushed him away and looked into his eyes. “Are they like this one?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The remorse in his gaze told me everything I needed to know.

They weren’t like this letter.

They were worse.





Fifteen





Finn





“You’re doing so well.” Ashley clapped. “I’m so impressed.”

“Thanks, Ashley.” I grinned at her then finished the set of bicep curls I was doing with an elastic exercise band.

The name of our game at the moment was Muscle Mass. My right arm looked like a limp noodle compared to my left. Both of my legs had slimmed down and my thighs didn’t fill out my jeans anymore. Instead, they draped down my legs, covering the toothpicks that had become my calves, so I’d been working hard to replace the muscle I’d lost after the accident.

I’d never been vain about my body. I wasn’t a gym rat or obsessive about my diet. I had a physical job and loved hiking in the mountains, both of which kept me in shape. But after months of being trapped in a bed or chair, I was not happy with the reflection in the mirror. I looked like a string bean.