7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Hailey
The afternoon sun streams through my bedroom window as I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by the letters.
I've been organizing them chronologically, fascinated by the progression of this soldier's heart opening up to Red.
It's like watching a flower bloom in slow motion.
I pick up one from the middle of the timeline, dated about six months into his deployment. The paper is worn at the edges, as if it's been read and reread many times.
Red,
Some nights here, when the sky is clear and the stars look close enough to touch, I find myself thinking about what you said that day at the pier.
How the same stars shine over everyone, no matter how far apart we are.
I keep that thought with me to remind me you aren’t as far away as you feel.
It makes the distance feel less vast somehow.
I freeze, the letter trembling in my hands.
That line about stars being a connection across distances.
Walker said almost the exact same thing to me the other night when he walked me to my car.
Word for word .
Coincidence, maybe?
I grab another letter, this one from later in the deployment.
I keep thinking about that day we got caught in the rain at the county fair.
You were so worried about your hair, but all I could think was how beautiful you looked with raindrops on your eyelashes, laughing as we ran for cover under that ridiculous pumpkin display.
..
My heart thuds against my ribs.
Last week, during dinner, Olivia had told a story about the county fair and retelling a story of Walker and her mom getting drenched at the county fair and hiding under a giant pumpkin display.
She'd teased him about it, and he'd changed the subject quickly.
Too quickly.
I spread the letters out in front of me, scanning each one with new eyes.
The handwriting. The turns of phrase.
The stories.
"No," I whisper to the empty room.
"No way."
But even as I say it, I know.
Walker is the soldier who wrote these letters.
Walker poured his heart out page after page, letter after letter.
Walker loved Red with an intensity that takes my breath away.
I flip through the letters again, this time looking at postmarks, trying to piece together the timeline.
If Walker wrote these letters, then was Red Olivia’s mom Riley?
Then why didn't Riley write back? Who could ignore love like this? It doesn't make sense.
And then another thought hits me like a physical blow: Walker knew I was reading these.
He knew exactly what I'd found in that attic, and he never said a word.
I gather the letters with shaking hands and storm downstairs, grabbing my car keys. Before I know it, I’m at his house knocking on the door. He opens it, and a smile spreads across his face. He drops it when I don’t return it.
"It was you," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You wrote these letters." I hold them in my hand.
He doesn’t say anything. Instead he steps aside and lets me into the house. I don’t walk past the entryway before turning around to him.
"You knew I was reading them. You knew, and you said nothing." Holding them up again, I need to know. "Why?"
When he turns to face me, the resignation in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.
"I never intended for you to find them," he says quietly.
"That's not an answer."
"What do you want me to say, Hailey?" His voice is tired. "Yes, I wrote them. Yes, I knew what you found. I didn't see the point in dredging it all up."
"The point?" I repeat, incredulous. "The point is honesty. The point is not letting me stumble around in the dark, piecing together your past like some kind of mystery novel."
"It's not a mystery. It's just... over."
"Over?" I grab one of the letters. "This doesn't feel over, Walker. This feels like something that's been haunting you for years. And now it's haunting me too, because I can't figure out why she never wrote back to you. How could anyone read these and not respond?"
Pain flashes across his face, so raw it makes me step back.
"It doesn't matter anymore," he says, turning away.
"It does matter! It matters because—" I stop, realizing with sudden clarity why this hurts so much. "It matters because you're afraid to try again. With anyone. With me."
He doesn't deny it.
"Please," I say, softer now.
"Just tell me what happened."
Walker looks at the letters, his expression unreadable.
"I didn’t know if she even read them."
"They were read, a lot," I say gently.
He nods, a short, jerky movement.
"I didn't know. I kept writing, thinking..." He trails off.
"Thinking she was ignoring you."
"The war was hard. I thought maybe it was too much for her. Or that she'd met someone else, and boy, did she. My best friend from high school and her found comfort in each other’s arms." His laugh is hollow.
I want to reach for him, but something holds me back.
"Why didn't you tell me when you saw I had the letters?"
"What was I supposed to say? By the way, those love letters you're reading? I wrote them to my dead wife?" He shakes his head.
"Once you realized what they were, I thought you'd put them away. I never expected you to read them all."
"But I did read them. And now I need to understand." I take a deep breath. "Did you ever find out why she didn't write back to the earlier ones? The ones she would have received?"
Something shifts in Walker's expression, a door closing. "Like I said, it doesn't matter anymore."
But it does. It matters because the pain in his eyes tells me there's more to this story—something he's not telling me. Something that might explain why he's kept everyone at arm's length for so long.
"I need some air," I say abruptly. "I can't be here right now."
Walker doesn't try to stop me as I head for the door.
He just stands there, surrounded by the ghosts of words written long ago, looking more alone than I've ever seen him.
I drive without thinking, muscle memory guiding me down the highway and to the winding road to Oakside. Before I know it, I'm parked outside Brooke's cottage-style house. I text her from the car.
Me: You home? Need a friend.
Her reply is immediate. She doesn’t ask questions, just welcomes me.
Brooke: Door's open.
Wine's cold.
Brooke takes one look at my face when I walk in and pulls me into a hug.
"What happened?" she asks, leading me to her couch.
I tell her everything. Finding the letters, realizing Walker wrote them, and then confronting him. The words tumble out in a confused jumble, but Brooke listens patiently, refilling my wine glass whenever it gets low. Her husband, Luke, is so thoughtful he brings us another bottle when we’ve gone through the first.
"So he never explained why she didn't write back to the early letters?" Brooke asks when I finish.
"No. He just shut down." I stare into my glass. "I don't understand why he kept this from me. We've been..." I trail off, not wanting to define what we've been.
"Have you considered that maybe it wasn't about hiding it from you specifically?" Brooke suggests gently. "Maybe it's something he's been hiding from himself."
"What do you mean?"
"Grief does strange things to people, Hailey. Sometimes the hardest part isn't losing someone—it's the unanswered questions they leave behind." She takes a sip of her wine. "Walker lost Riley, and it sounds like he never got closure on why she stopped writing. That kind of pain doesn't just go away."
"But why not tell me when he realized I found the letters?"
"Because then he'd have to face it all again. The love, the loss, the questions." Brooke shrugs. "And maybe he'd have to face the possibility of feeling that way about someone new. That's scary stuff."
I think about Walker's face when I confronted him—not angry, not defensive, just resigned. Like he'd been waiting for this moment, dreading it.
"I still feel betrayed," I admit.
"That's valid. But ask yourself this: was it malicious, or was it self-protective?" Brooke reaches over to squeeze my hand. "Fear can make people do odd things, especially fear of being hurt again."
My phone buzzes with a text.
Lexi: Brooke said you are in town. You can stay in the apartment as long as you need to.
Another friend is offering to help, no questions asked. Lexi and Noah have an apartment in their walkout basement and have let everyone from Noah's sister to the residents' family stay in it.
"Want to stay here tonight?" Brooke offers. "Guest room's always ready, though I know Lexi probably offered you the apartment."
I consider it. "Yeah, I’ll stay tonight, but I should head back tomorrow. I can’t run from this forever."
"Get some rest." Brooke walks me to the guest room. "And Hailey? Try to remember that everyone's fighting battles you can't see.”