Chapter 13 Izzy
Chapter thirteen
Izzy
I give Jaxon a noncommittal answer to his request, but as soon as I walk in the door, the envelope sitting on the corner of the desk in my room, the same one that’s been staring at me since the day I brought it home, is the only thing I can think about.
I just can’t seem to get my mind around opening it.
It feels like opening his letter, when he never responded to mine all those years ago, is showing my hand too much. Being too vulnerable. Letting him win.
I’m not sure what game we’re playing or why it would be a bad thing if he won—I guess because I would lose, somehow—but it feels too easy.
Like reading it would be a sign of weakness. That I’m not strong enough to hold to my views on things. That I’m willing to be walked on by any man with a pretty face and a good job and just hop up and say it’s okay.
Not that Jaxon walked on me. I’m pretty sure walking away from someone is different than walking over them. And it’s not like he isn’t trying. I know he is.
So maybe…maybe I should read the letter.
I walk into my room and sit on the corner of my bed, engaging in what has to be the most useless staring contest that has ever taken place between a woman and an envelope.
Just do it. Just grab that little white square and open it.
Instead, I continue to stare at it, because clearly that will solve all my problems.
After overthinking every step that led me here—and realizing I don’t want to be the kind of person who ignores something that clearly means so much to someone—I finally grab the letter off my desk and open it.
I stare at the folded piece of off-white paper in my hand, some kind of fancy stationery that I've never considered owning before.
Jaxon must have found it in his dad's house.
I curl up under my covers, and I read the letter Jaxon wrote to me.
It’s beautiful—exactly the kind of letter you’d expect from someone who writes chart-topping country songs.
Tears start to fall when I reach a part that says, “I never meant to hurt you. Honestly, I didn’t think my absence would still matter to you fifteen years later.
But I should’ve known. Because you still matter to me.
I convinced myself that you—like my dad—saw me as an annoying kid who you were stuck dealing with.
But in reality, I knew better. I knew our friendship was real. ”
A sob breaks free when I read: “I know the silence probably hurt the most. But if I’d talked to you—if I’d heard your voice—I would’ve come back. And we both know I couldn’t become the person I needed to be if I stayed.”
I can feel my walls crashing down around me, and it's a particularly unpleasant feeling. Becca comes in after one of my louder sobs escapes, asking, “Are you okay?”
“Honestly?” I croak. “I'm not sure.”
“Want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, but then say anyway, “I think I might forgive him.”