The Boy and His Ribbon (The Ribbon Duet, #1)(135)

Della was mine, and I was hers.

I was her protector. She was my best friend.

I’d seen her grow from baby to child to woman, and no matter how I felt about her, I would never be allowed to have her in any other way but family.

I would burn in hell before I did.

I should be able to happily stand by as she found a lover, a husband, and be proud that I gave her such a life.

So why did the thought of her finding such gifts make me want to tear out the remainder of my heart and deny her everything? Why did I want to trap her in this one-bedroom apartment for the rest of our lives, never letting her see others, never letting her be happy unless she was happy with me?

That wasn’t right.

That wasn’t healthy.

I would end up smothering her, and I loved her far too much to destroy her.

I couldn’t have her, and I couldn’t watch her walk away.

So there was only one thing I could do.

She was right.

She didn’t need me anymore.

I’d done my part; I’d given her everything I had to give and now, I had to give her her freedom.

Once the idea manifested, I was grateful for the guidance. I didn’t second-guess as I pushed aside the couch and pulled out the cash I’d saved under the floorboards. I moved quietly as I checked the contents of the forever-packed backpack and lashed the new tent Della had bought me to its bulk.

I wanted my removal from her life to take years. For something to say we were so entwined, so tied together that there was no possible way for me to walk away. But I didn’t come across any knot or rope that couldn’t be undone with the simple choice to leave.

Within thirty horrible minutes, I had everything I needed.

I stared at the corridor where she rested and took two steps toward her before I grabbed control again and nodded with determination.

This was what had to happen.

I’d hurt her.

I continued to hurt her just like she continued to hurt me, and we both shouldn’t have to live in agony any longer.

Placing the cash on the coffee table, I looked around the apartment one last time. Grabbing a spare pen and a Post-it always housed next to the TV remote, I wrote the hardest letter of my life.

Della Ribbon,

I love you so much it hurts—

My hand paused.

My brain full of everything I wished I could tell her.

There was so much to say. So many confessions to share.

But in the end, I couldn’t write any of them.

Goodbye, Della.

I put the pen down next to a years’ worth of rent, picked up my backpack, and walked out the door.