Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
Joey
While I was in Seattle, Beckett was busy helping his mom around the house, so we only texted here and there. When the message I sent before boarding the plane still shows that it hasn’t been read, my stomach sinks.
I’m still mulling over the job offer, and I need him. He’s always a great sounding board and the voice of reason. But this isn’t a conversation that can be had over a text, and I don’t want to intrude on his time with his mom.
Regardless of what he said about me never being a hassle, I can’t ignore the insidious voices that creep in from time to time.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the storage unit complex, and once I’ve punched in the code, the creaky gates open slowly.
In high school, I took a sociology class, and one of our projects was to create a time capsule. The idea was to open it after ten years. Ten years turned into fifteen, and honestly, I’d forgotten about it until my nap on the plane.
I dreamed that my mom and dad were sitting in a field of wildflowers, smiling at me. My mom’s curly brown hair exactly how I remember it and my dad’s eyes filled with kindness. . .and pride.
He looked proud of me and I couldn’t understand why.
“Find the shoebox,” they told me.
Before I could ask them what they meant, the pilot announced we were landing shortly and I was jolted awake.
As I open the door to the storage unit, where my siblings and I store so many keepsakes from our childhoods, my hands tremble.
With a deep breath in, I start my search.
Each box brims with history and memories.
There are old family photographs, dusty antiques that my dad promised we wouldn’t sell for profit, and old sweaters that still smell faintly of my mom’s perfume.
On my tiptoes, I reach for another dusty box on a top shelf. When I pull it forward, a smaller weathered cardboard box comes tumbling down, hitting the concrete floor with a hollow thud and a large puff of dust.
It’s a shoebox.
It’s wrapped in duct tape, so I find the small pocketknife I keep in my purse, and carefully slice open the seams of the box.
Inside, I find embarrassing photographs of my high school self and a few little trinkets that mean nothing now.
But beneath them, I discover a letter addressed to me from my dad.
My heart leaps into my throat as I hold the worn yellow paper between my fingertips. Closing my eyes, I take a calming breath. Then I carefully unfold the letter.
Grief rolls over me at the sight of his barely legible handwriting.
Each word is pressed into the paper with force, the way Dad always wrote.
I trace my fingertips over the indentations, sniffling back tears.
The picture in my mind is as clear as day as I imagine him sitting at his desk with his reading glasses on, writing this letter to sixteen-year-old me.
Dear Joey,
I’m writing this letter for your time capsule project. If you read this before you’re twenty-six, I’m hiding your car keys.
Ever since the day I first held you in my arms, you’ve reminded me of wildflowers. The ones your mom and I would see when we traveled up and down the Pacific Coast Highway during the springtime.
Like a wildflower, you’ve always been resilient. You thrive where you’re planted and grow on your own terms.
In the last couple of years, I’ve overheard your conversations with Mom (no, I wasn’t eavesdropping—the walls are thin and your voice carries). You often mention how you’ve never felt that anyone has chosen you. That you feel different. Like you don’t belong.
So I want to remind you of one of my favorite days that I’ve spent with you.
Remember that day we spent in that flower field off the coast when you were ten?
You never once looked at those wildflowers and thought they were unworthy because they were different.
You admired them because of their uniqueness.
You chose to pick them for your mom because no two flowers were the same.
You saw them for what they were—beautiful, strong, and free.
And that, my daughter, is exactly what you are. Beautiful, strong, and free.
Never forget, it’s okay to be different. In fact, I encourage you to continue being different (normal people are overrated anyway).
Remember, if you feel like you don’t fit in, you’re on the right path. So long as you stay true to yourself, you’ll bloom where you’re planted.
Because, just like a wildflower, your individuality and authenticity make you one of a kind.
Love always,
Dad
I press the letter to my chest as hot tears stream down my face.
Then I cry so hard I can’t breathe. My chest burns, and I have to sit with my head between my knees for several minutes. Eventually, my lungs fill and the tears dry. This is what I needed to see. This was the sign I was looking for.
And as I clutch the letter in my hands, sniffling, I’ve never felt more sure of myself.
By the time I pull into the driveway, night has fallen. The sky is a deep navy, the stars glittering above me.
I need to speak to Beckett. I need to tell him everything.
I sprint inside, drop my bags, and call out for him.
The house is dark aside from the small entry table lamp.
“Beckett?” I call again, stepping farther into the living space.
Nothing.
When I’m met with silence, my stomach drops. I can’t get ahead of myself and think the worst. It’s not fair to me or him.
So I head to my bedroom to change into comfortable clothes, dead set on donating this penguin suit as soon as possible.
Meow.
Before I get there, Barbara calls for me from the top of the steps.
“Hey, Babs,” I coo. “You hungry?”
She flicks her tail back and forth, then darts away like something has frightened her.
That’s weird.
She meows again, the sound more insistent, and when she does it a third time, I shuffle to the stairway.
I hesitate at the bottom, gripping the wooden banister as I consider my options.
I’ve never actually been upstairs, and the idea of crossing that barrier into Beckett’s territory makes me uncomfortable.
It’s his space and I have no business entering it.
Yet Barbara is still meowing, the noise now echoing down the hall, and I’m getting worried that something is wrong.
At the top of the stairs, I find a small vintage desk under a window.
Barbara sits on it regally, her head held high. Her wide amber eyes focus on me, then shift to the side.
I follow her line of sight and find a weathered journal with a note on the front that says please read.
Confused, I reach for it, my fingertips grazing the texture of well-worn leather. I flip through it, finding nothing but blank pages. But as I get to the front and catch a glimpse of Beckett’s handwriting, anticipation floods me.
Josephine,
I know you’re torn about what to do. I wasn’t sure how to articulate this, so I wrote it down. Writing is always easier for me.
Nothing you do will make you feel complete because you were never incomplete to begin with.
You’ve been whole all this time, and in the last few months, I’ve fallen in love with you. All of you.
I didn’t mean for it to happen, but I don’t regret it.
I fell deeply in love with all the beautiful, imperfectly perfect facets of you. Whether you leave your socks all over the house or make a complete mess when making dinner—I love all your pieces.
And yes, even the ones I still don’t understand.
But knowing you and your beautiful mind, the words above aren’t enough.
So, Josephine, I’m writing this to tell you that I choose you. I’d choose you in every lifetime, every version of reality, and in infinite universes. I’d find you and I’d choose you over and over again.
As I put my pen to the paper, I long to fill this journal with our story.
And I know what you’re thinking. “What happens when this journal ends?”
Lucky for you, I have a whole stockpile. I’ll never run out. There will always be a journal waiting to be filled with the memories we make together. Ready to be flipped through during shared sunny mornings and rainy nights.
Because, Josephine, I love you in ways you can’t even begin to imagine.
I’ll supply the journal, and together, we’ll capture moments and put them on this paper. Just you and me. . .and Barbara.
Until then, I’ll patiently wait for you to write the next line. No matter how long you need.
I will always wait for you.
Yours, and only yours, always,
Beckett
My hands tremble as I close the journal. His writing is messy and impatient, like he couldn’t get his thoughts out fast enough because he feared he’d forget them.
He understands the language of my heart, and he has shown me over and over that I’m deserving of the same kind of love I give.
When a person’s heart is understood in the way that he understands mine, it’s like coming home after a bad day and being wrapped up tight in a pair of comforting arms.
Beckett doesn’t just talk safe, he feels safe.
I press the journal against my chest, my heart fluttering behind my ribs, and look out the window at the shadowy forest.
I need to talk to Beckett. To hear his voice. To tell him I feel the same way.
The weight of his words washes over me, like the warmth of the sun kissing my skin after a cold winter.
With a deep inhale, I turn, ready to find my phone and call him. Ask him to come home.
Instead, I find him standing on the landing at the top of the stairs. The soft orange glow from downstairs barely silhouettes his body in this tiny alcove. His blond hair is mussed, like he’s been raking his fingers through it, his dark-rimmed glasses are askew, his emerald eyes tender and earnest.
My breath hitches. “I-I didn’t hear you.”
“I’m stealthy.” He takes a step closer to me, hands in his pockets.
“Y-you love me?” I question, my voice unsteady.
“I do.” He takes another step forward.
My eyes blur with tears, my chest aching. “Are you sure?”
He lets out a quiet chuckle that wraps around my soul, healing all my broken pieces, and with one more step, he cradles my cheek and brushes his thumb over my skin.
As he takes me in, his eyes are filled with sincerity and love. So much so that I can’t look away. “Yes, Josephine. I’m sure.”
I blink back my tears. “Hey, Beckett?”
“Yeah?”
“Follow me.”
“Anywhere.”
Maybe I’ve never been chosen until now because the universe wanted me to wait for him. For the man who’s also never anyone’s first choice. Now here we are, choosing each other.