Free

Chapter 12

TWELVE

Nick

Charlie—

It’s been almost two weeks since I saw you at your almost wedding and…

…how do I put this lightly?

I wasn’t prepared for what seeing you would do to me.

I thought, you know, after a year without you, my feelings for you would have faded. Time and distance were supposed to make it easier, right?

I’ve never been more wrong.

If anything, my feelings have grown stronger. You’re so beautiful. And so smart. And funny and you don’t take shit. You’re just awesome, Charlie. So fucking awesome. And God, I’ve missed you.

You told me once that language isn’t strong enough to express emotion, and I thought I understood what you meant then. But after seeing you again? I really get it now. I don’t know how to name what I feel for you.

I never have.

It’s big and bold and makes everything else feel irrelevant. Like the world could be burning down around us and that’s okay because we’re together. You’re comfort and excitement, home and adventure, greatness and simplicity all wrapped up into this beautiful ache in my heart.

That sounds cheesy, even for me. Good thing I’ll never send this letter, huh?

It’s been two weeks, and I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

Let’s be real. It’s been a year, and I haven’t stopped thinking of you.

No. Let’s see. How long ago did we meet? It’s been that long and I haven’t stopped thinking about you.

I’m so sorry things went to shit between us. Sorry I’m the one to blame. I see the hurt in your eyes, every time you looked at me it was right there. Accusing. Questioning.

Maybe it’s time I explained.

The day you came to see me at the hospital, you told me you’d take care of me. That you’d stand by my side and help me build a new life, and I could see how much you meant it. You’d sacrifice yourself, your goals, your wants, your desires, all to make sure I got better.

That was when I knew I had to set you free.

I’ve been through some shit, Charlie. Some shit I never want you to have to think about. You didn’t know what you were signing up for. How could you? How could you know what it’s like to wake up screaming in the middle of the night? Or to freeze at the sound of a door slamming, because it’s too damn close to the sound of an explosion? How could you understand what it’s like to look in the mirror and see someone you don’t even recognize?

You couldn’t, and that’s the point.

I didn’t want you tethered to my broken pieces. I didn’t want you to lose yourself trying to fix me. And I knew that if I told you that, you’d stay anyway. Because that’s who you are.

I love you too much to put you through that.

So I made the choice for both of us.

And I knew, deep down, that if I tried to explain, you wouldn’t listen. You’d dig your heels in and double down on sticking around. Because that’s who you are.

So I ghosted you.

It killed me to do it. It still does. But at least I knew you’d get to live the life you deserved. And when I heard you were getting married…

Fuck.

I don’t know, Charlie.

I told myself I was relieved, but I was lying. I wanted to be happy that you’d found love, but I just couldn’t get myself there. I guess I’m a selfish bastard.

Are you okay? After everything that happened at the wedding, are you really okay?

I’m sorry that happened to you, that you were cheated on and used and found out about it the way you did, but since I’ll never send this letter, I’m gonna be honest.

I am beyond relieved you saw that asshole for what he is before you married him.

Davis Chaplin is transparent as fuck. He’s fake and focused on status and appearance. I mean, just look at that wedding. At your dress. String quartets? A printed reminder to keep a pleasant smile on our face at all times because the photographer was shooting ‘candids?’ Come on!

Where was your fire? Your freedom? The parts of you that light up a room?

That man didn’t see you. Not the real you.

Sitting at that picnic table with you was the first time I felt like myself since I came home, and you? You were so much smaller. That asshole had drained you of the fire I’ve admired forever.

For one beautiful hour, I was the man who dreamed of coming home and starting a relationship with you. The one who dared to dream of marrying you—and I promise, that wedding would have been screaming “Charlie!” from the rooftops. We’d be barefoot, on the beach, people cheering and dancing and laughing. There’d be good music and better energy and just, I don’t know, the kind of love that could heal the whole damn world.

And then your family arrived and, I don’t know, I saw that you were surrounded by good hands. Hands much more capable of helping you through everything than mine.

So I disappeared.

I probably should have said goodbye, but you know how I feel about those.

Doc Eddington said I should take a yoga class.

Can you even imagine?? My big ass “HOORAH” self on the mat?

Namaste? You mean No-maste, am I right?

I’m imagining you laughing and that makes me smile.

Uncle Lucas kinda said the same thing. Told me to look into a painting class or group therapy or something artsy and outside my comfort zone. I know he’s been where I am, so I’m trying to take his advice. To follow in his footsteps.

(Don’t get your hopes up, his footsteps won’t lead me to yoga.)

He found his purpose working with Dad at The Hut after Grandpa passed, so now I have an office there where I go every day and pretend I’m doing something important. But for Uncle Lucas, the hotel was in trouble, it was still just the one original location and with all those awful stories coming to light about Grandpa… I don’t know. Uncle Lucas was working with family to save the Hutton legacy. That’s powerful, right? And he met Aunt Cat right around the same time, so his whole life transformed.

It’s different for me. There are two Hutton Hotels now, and thanks to Angela and Garrett, they’re doing really well. So, yes, I’m working with family, but also, there’s not much actual work to do. I’m not really sure how that’s gonna help me.

Ultimately, Uncle Lucas finally healed because he found connection, and I know that’s why he’s suggesting I try those weird classes that so aren’t my style. Same with Doc Eddington. It’s just, I don’t know, I had connection. With you. And you were ready to keep showing up for me, even when that meant strapping yourself to something you didn’t understand.

I couldn’t let you do that…

I want to call you. Every damn day, I want to pick up the phone, hear your voice, and ask how you’re holding up. I want to make sure you’re eating, sleeping, smiling. I want to remind you that you’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever known.

But I don’t.

Because I’m a coward.

Because I don’t trust myself not to say the wrong thing, to fall back into old habits. Because even now, knowing what I know, I’m still not strong enough to be what you need.

I know it sounds like I’m wallowing, but I’m not. Or at least I don’t think I am. My letters to you… they used to be the one time I could be really honest. I felt like I could tell you anything. And I did, didn’t I? The best, worst, and most surprising parts of me hit the page. I discovered more about myself while writing to you than in any other part of my life. And the best part? Your responses were thoughtful and caring and vulnerable. You saw the real me and said, “Fuck yeah. I’ll take more of that, please.”

I’ve never had that with anyone else.

God, I miss you.

I hope you’re happy.

I hope you’re well.

Yours forever,

Nick

I put my pen down with a heavy sigh. My dog, Sunshine, lifts her head, checking in from her dutiful place at my feet.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, scratching behind her ears. Her eyes slide closed and she cocks her head to give me better access to her favorite spot. With a sigh, I fold the letter and place it in a box on top of the others.

A year’s worth of letters I’ll never send.