Chapter 94
Ethan
My house comes into view before me, and I feel… off.
It’s the same single-story structure it’s always been.
Attached two-car garage. Green shingled roof. Dark wood siding. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. An eat-in kitchen. Living room with a worn couch and two recliners. And the same coffee table Sandra scratched her initials into when she was bored one day.
After that accident… when Sandra was only twelve and suddenly my responsibility, she told me she didn’t want to live in the house that reminded her so much of Mom and Dad. And honestly, I didn’t either.
So we sold it. We bought this place. And then we split the rest of the inheritance in half. Hers went into savings for when she got older, and mine went into investments and keeping us alive.
It’s been a good home. A solid one. Surrounded by pines. On a handful of acres. Far enough from town to be peaceful. Close enough for driving Sandra to school. Not far from the Lonely Peak State Park entrance.
But it’s on the opposite side of the park from Tilda.
Twenty-four minutes away from her front door.
Close enough for a visit. Too far for an emergency.
Pressing the button on my visor, I wait for the garage door to open, then I park my personal black pickup next to my official work one.
Climbing out, I hear a rumble of thunder, and I give a thanks to the sky for waiting. My Mountain Fairy was scared enough on that flight home. Bad weather would’ve traumatized her.
Leaving the garage door open, I step into my house.
It’s quiet.
It’s how it always is.
But it feels… stale.
Not bothering with my boots, I start to cross the kitchen, when I see it.
The envelope.
The letter.
I left it on the counter. And it’s still there. Staring back at me.
Guilt makes my steps heavy as I cross to it.
And anger at myself makes my fingers numb as I lift it.
I know I should’ve told Tilda about it. Explained that Jack sent it to me. But… there was never a good time.
There was never a good time.
I’ll repeat that to myself however many times it takes.
And the letter, it doesn’t mean anything.
I pull the paper out of the envelope.
It doesn’t mean anything because even if I’d never gotten this fucking letter, I still would have done everything the same.
I still would’ve flown Tilda to Vegas.
I still would’ve stood beside her against her shitty fucking family.
I still would’ve married her.
Without anyone’s interference, I still would’ve married Matilda Iris Wright.
I unfold the single sheet of paper.
Dear Ethan,
I’m sure you’ve met my Matty by now. Sorry (not actually sorry) for misleading you. But it was necessary to get your acceptance.
You’re a stubborn man, Ethan Grant. A real ass sometimes. But your heart is good.
And Matilda needs someone with a good heart.
You gave me your word that you’d keep an eye on her. And I need you to keep your word. Because even if you didn’t know it at the time, it was a promise to a dying man. And since I’m dead now, you can’t take it back.
So, Ethan Grant, Park Ranger, Overall Grump, I need you to promise me one more thing.
That you will keep an eye on Matilda.
That you will keep her safe.
And for the next three months, starting tomorrow, when you fly to Vegas, I need you to do whatever she asks of you. No matter how… unconventional.
A heavy scoff leaves my chest.
Unconventional.
I shake my head.
A Dolly Parton wedding sure counts as un-fucking-conventional.
My jaw works as I lower my eyes back to the page.
Then my phone rings.
I pull it from my pocket and see it’s coming from the park’s Visitor Center.
“Ethan.” I answer as I always do.
“Hey, man.” Conners heaves out a breath. “I’m not sure if you’re available, but we had some idiot break the handrail on the west overlook trail. And we’re trying to get it fixed before tomorrow morning.”
“I’m available.” I set the letter down. “I’ll be there in ten.”
After hanging up, I slide my phone back into my pocket and stride toward the side door.
Anything is better than sitting alone in my house right now.
When I yank the door open, a gust of wind blows through the garage, trying to push me back, but I step through and drag the door closed behind me.
Four hours later, I’m back in the garage.
I did more than I needed to, well aware I was doing it to stay busy and out of my head. But it worked.
Once I kick my boots off, I walk straight to the envelope that’s lying on the floor. Probably blown off the counter by the wind earlier.
And I do what I should’ve done when it was first handed to me.
I walk it to my garbage bin and drop it in.
I’m married to Tilda because I want to be.
And that’s all she ever needs to know.