Chapter 17 #2
His tone is smooth, low. It makes me think we’re not just talking about me here, and my heart rate accelerates as I stare at where his hand holds mine.
He feels…perfect.
“When we were younger,” I say, “you told me I’d be a famous fairytale author when I grew up. I was obsessed with happily ever afters, and you were always so patient with me. You listened to the stories I had in my head, and you never once tried to discourage me.”
He tugs me to an abrupt halt, his fingers tightening around mine.
“Prince Valor. You told stories about Prince Valor saving the Honey Queen.” His eyes are glassy, as if he’s not really here but lost somewhere in his mind.
“Our tree. It’s shaped like a Y. I’d push you up to the first branch, and then we’d climb so high no one could find us.
That’s where you told me stories—where we were safe. ”
“Yeah,” I choke out, my throat thick and itchy.
He blinks rapidly, bringing life back into focus.
“Do you think—” I clear my throat. “Do you think our past is why you started Styx and Stone Security?” Was it because of me?
He nods and gently guides me forward as people walk around us on the sidewalk.
“That’s…twofold. I may not have all my memories, but I’ve known since the moment I woke up that I didn’t protect something important.
Ever since, I’ve spent my life trying to make up for that.
I think…I’ve been trying to make up for not protecting you, and I didn’t even know it, but I also wanted access to resources to dig into my past. Unfortunately, I always hit a wall.
Almost as though someone were actively working against me. ”
“Valen.” I’m not sure he hears me. I barely heard myself, but he doesn’t stop walking, and I allow him to drag me through town.
“Opening Styx and Stone Security was supposed to erase the unease that sits heavy on my shoulders. I trained with ex-special ops agents for two years while Roman got the business side of things up and running. But no matter how many people I saved, the…fear remained.”
We both wear the scars of our childhood in different ways. It’s devastatingly unfair.
“Valen?” I squint up at him, the sun creating a halo around his face.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for giving me today. Before we go to Peachvale tomorrow, I mean.”
His hand tightens on mine. “It means as much to me as it does you…maybe more. There’s something—being with you—it just feels so damn right, you know? Like I’m finally…settled after spending years trying to climb out of my skin because I never truly fit anywhere.”
Where are the dang tissues when you need them? “I—I need to tell you something. About the letters.” Guilt makes my tone tight.
He stops walking, glances over my head, to the side, then leads me to an empty park bench. “What is it?”
I take a breath. “You know I’ve been writing to you. To the PO box, for years.”
He nods, scanning my face, then sits up taller, as if he’s preparing himself for bad news.
“It’s a lot of letters, Valen. Like…a lot.
At first, I was so sure you were coming for me that I wrote to you weekly, then monthly.
Then, when my heart started to break, there were some…
angry ones.” I cringe and focus on how he holds my hand instead of his face.
“After my anger wore off, I only wrote for holidays and major life milestones. But…there might be one or two giant FUs in there too.” I scrunch up my nose, remembering the pain of my angry days.
He remains unnaturally still. “What do you mean?”
“When Miriam smuggled me out of New Hampshire, she gave me that address. I don’t know if she knew what happened to you, but when we left, it was in a hurry. She told me if I didn’t hear from you, not to lose hope, to always write, and you’d get them…eventually.”
“Clover,” he croaks, but still, I can’t look directly at him.
“That’s all the information I had to go on, so I did. I wrote about my life. About college. About moving to Happiness because it’s what I was searching for in life. I wrote about my books.” My voice wobbles. “I wrote about missing you.”
“I didn’t know,” he says quietly, as though it pains him as much as it did me.
“I know that now. And somehow, I knew you weren’t getting them, but I kept writing anyway. It felt—” I search for the right phrasing. “It felt like keeping you close. Like you were still out there somewhere, you know?”
“You kept writing even though you thought I’d ghosted you?”
I nod, then wipe an errant tear. The sun is setting, and the chill of a New England fall is beginning to seep into my bones.
“It was…therapeutic, and it made me feel less alone in the world. But then, you started writing back. Well, I mean, I thought it was you. The handwriting was so close to what I remembered.”
I pull out my phone and show him some photos of his supposed letters.
“Poems, sonnets. Beautiful words that—” I bite my lip, centering myself. “Poetry didn’t fit the boy I remembered, but the words in them, they did.” I swipe at my cheek again. “Or maybe I just wanted you so desperately that I made this nonsense fit the boy I thought I knew.”
“Wait.” Valen takes my phone and zooms in on an image. “This isn’t my handwriting.” He squints and draws the screen closer. “These are the letters you gave Roman?”
I nod.
“It’s close,” he says. “Really close to my handwriting, but I had to relearn how to do some things when I woke up in the hospital. Writing, fine motor skills were among them. I never quite mastered the curve at the bottom of the letter S, not like I did as a kid. Someone studied a sample of my childhood writing and copied it.” His jaw tightens.
“Someone had access to things I wrote before I was attacked.”
“It makes sense,” I say, while he stares at the image of a handwritten poem on cream-colored paper. “We have no idea when someone found your journals. They could have been practicing your handwriting for years, for all we know.”
He pulls me into his arms right there on Main Street.
“I wanted them to be real so badly, I never looked deeper into the handwriting,” I admit.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair. “I’m so fucking sorry for everything.”
“It’s not your fault.” I sniffle. “Someone has been getting my letters, Valen. Reading personal things, stuff I never shared with anyone else. How long have they been invading my privacy? And why wait this long to come after me? After all this time?”
“We’ll find out,” he says. Another promise I wish I could believe in. “We’ll go to the post office tomorrow and start piecing this entire shit show together.”
“What if it’s—” I can’t say it. I’m not sure how many betrayals I can withstand.
“What if it’s what?”
“Miriam.” The name burns along my lips. “What if she’s been reading them? What if she’s been—she protected me, Valen. So many times. You too. But when faced with the facts, she’s the only name I can think of. She’s the only one who knew I’d be writing letters. So why would she do this to us now?”
Even as the words leave my mouth, something nags at me. The poems weren’t Miriam’s style. They were too…emotional. Too intimate. Miriam was kind, but she dealt in facts and reality, not whimsical fantasies about love.
“I have no memories of her, Honeybee. But if it is her, we’ll deal with it,” he says firmly. “And Clover?” He cups my face, his lips only inches from mine. “Regardless of who it is, I won’t allow them to hurt either of us anymore.”
I nod, not trusting my voice.
“Come on,” he says, helping me to stand. “Let’s get back to the inn. Randi mentioned something about fresh cider.”
My heart pinches in my chest. I may have left Happiness in the rearview, but maybe happiness is finally trying to find me.