Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Cole
T he farm is quietest at night. No sounds except the old furnace kicking on and the occasional creak of floorboards settling. Usually, the silence helps me write, but tonight it feels heavy with everything I need to say.
Rebecca's latest letter sits beside my notebook, her graceful handwriting catching the lamplight. Sometimes dreams change shape while we're not looking. The words have been echoing in my head since I first read them, mixing with memories of how she looked at the fundraiser, carefully maintaining her distance even as we moved in the same orbit.
The blank page before me feels like a crossroads.
Dear Rebecca,
I've been staring at this paper for hours, trying to find the right way to tell you who I am. To explain why I started writing these letters, why I've kept my identity hidden. The truth is, I'm a coward. But not for the reasons you might think.
I pause, running a hand through my hair. The kitchen table is scattered with drafts of my novel, but I push them aside, needing space for this. Through the window, I can see snow falling on the old apple orchard, the branches bare and waiting for spring.
Ten years ago, I wrote you a different letter. The worst letter I've ever written. Five lines that ended everything we had, everything we dreamed of building together. You deserved so much better than those cold words, than the way I walked away.
It's me, Rebecca. It's Cole.
The confession sits stark on the page. I force myself to keep writing, to finally put down the truth I've carried for a decade.
When my father's gambling debts came to light, it wasn't just about the money he'd lost. He'd mortgaged Mom's future, my siblings' college funds, everything. The creditors were threatening legal action. Mom was barely holding it together. Katie and Mark were so young. They didn't understand why we had to leave our house, why everything was falling apart.
I had two choices. Stay in the Army and send money home, or take my signing bonus and a hardship discharge to handle things directly. But both options meant one thing. I couldn't keep my promises to you. Couldn't offer you the future we'd planned.
My throat tightens as I remember those desperate weeks. The sleepless nights wrestling with decisions no twenty-year-old should have to make. The way Mom's voice broke when she finally told me how bad things were.
You were so bright, Rebecca. So full of dreams about college, about the life we'd build. The thought of dragging you into my family's mess, of watching your dreams get buried under my responsibilities... I convinced myself letting you go was noble. That you deserved better than a life shaped by my father's mistakes.
I see now how wrong I was. How much pain I caused by trying to protect you. You deserved the truth, deserved the chance to make your own choices. Instead, I made them for you, pushed you away because I was too proud, too scared to admit how broken everything was.
The furnace kicks on again, humming in the quiet house. Outside, an owl calls into the darkness. I think about Rebecca's words about walls coming down, about dreams changing shape.
These letters started because I couldn't bear the distance between us when I came home. Couldn't stand seeing the careful way you hold yourself around me, knowing I put those walls there. Writing anonymously felt safer, for both of us.
But the truth is, every word I've written has been real. Every response to your letters has come from the heart. You've shared pieces of yourself that make me hope maybe there's still a chance to make things right.
I know this revelation will probably make you angry. You have every right to be. I've been hiding behind paper and ink, taking advantage of your trust. But I couldn't keep writing without telling you the truth. Couldn't keep pretending these letters aren't my way of trying to bridge the gap between who we were and who we are now.
The night at the diner, when I first saw you again, you looked right through me like I was a stranger, and I deserved that. But it broke something in me. Made me realize how much I needed you to know the truth about why I left, even if you never forgive me for how I did it.
I'll understand if you never want to hear from me again. If this letter joins all the others in whatever box you've buried our past in. But I needed you to know ? —
The grandfather clock in the hall chimes midnight, startling me. I look down at the pages I've filled, at the truth finally spilled out in ink and regret.
It's too much. Too raw. Too likely to shatter the fragile connection we've rebuilt through these anonymous letters.
I carefully fold the pages, slipping them into an envelope that I don't address. Not yet. Maybe not ever. Instead, I tuck it into my grandmother's old desk drawer, next to the novel chapters I can't seem to finish and the stack of Rebecca's recent letters that I've memorized by heart.
Tomorrow, I'll write her something safer. Something that keeps the walls between us intact, at least for a little longer. But this letter will wait here, holding all the truths I'm not brave enough to share, until I figure out if the risk of telling her everything is worse than the pain of keeping silent.
The snow continues to fall outside, covering the farm in white. Somewhere in town, Rebecca is probably asleep above her shop, maybe dreaming of the stranger who writes her letters about anchors and memories. Not knowing that he's just a coward trying to find his way back to the heart he broke.
Main Street is alive with morning shoppers when I push open the door to Paper Trails, the brass bell chiming my arrival. I've walked past the shop a dozen times this week, always finding some excuse not to go in. But I'm running low on stationery, and there's only one place in Juniper Falls to buy the cream-colored paper Rebecca and I have been using for our correspondence.
The irony doesn't escape me.
"Welcome to—" Rebecca looks up from the register, her greeting faltering when she sees me. "Oh. Cole."
"Morning." I try for casual, like I'm any other customer who might wander in looking for paper. "Just need some stationery."
She nods, professional mask sliding into place. "Card stock is along the back wall. Let me know if you need help."
Before I can respond, the bell chimes again. A young woman hurries in, wrapped in a purple scarf and radiating nervous energy.
"Rebecca!" She makes a beeline for the counter. "Please tell me you can help. I got engaged last night and I have no idea how to even start planning wedding invitations and Mom's already talking about save-the-dates and?—"
The transformation in Rebecca is immediate. Her whole face lights up as she steps around the counter, taking the woman's hands in hers. "Briana! Congratulations! Jake finally asked?"
"At Novel Sips, right where we first met." Briana fans her fingers, showing off a delicate ring. "I'm still in shock."
"It's beautiful." Rebecca's smile is genuine, reaching all the way to her eyes. "And don't worry about a thing. We'll figure out the perfect invitations together. Here, come sit in the consultation nook."
I pretend to browse writing papers while Rebecca leads Briana to the cozy corner with its overstuffed chairs. Within minutes, she's pulling out sample books, spreading them across the antique coffee table like a feast.
"Now," she says, "tell me everything you're dreaming of. Classic elegance? Whimsical romance? Modern simplicity?"
The joy in her voice catches me off guard. This is the Rebecca I remember. She could spend hours talking about paper weight and font choices. And it wasn’t just stationary. She’s always been able to see the simple beauty in her surroundings. Watching her now, pointing out different designs and listening intently to Briana's ideas, she's absolutely in her element.
Rebecca had talked about having her own shop, back when we were young and sharing dreams. I'd forgotten that, somehow. Or I'd just never let myself wonder if she'd achieved it without me.
"The letterpress designs are my favorite," Rebecca is saying, running her fingers over an embossed sample. "Feel how the ink creates texture on the paper? Each invitation is printed individually, so every guest receives something uniquely handcrafted."
Briana leans forward, entranced. "It's gorgeous. Like holding a piece of art."
"Exactly." Rebecca's whole face softens. "That's what I love about proper invitations. They're not just announcing an event. They're telling your love story through paper and ink."
Something in my chest constricts. I think about the letter hidden in my grandmother's desk, full of truths I'm too afraid to share. About how Rebecca deserves someone who can be honest with her, not someone hiding behind anonymous correspondence.
"Cole?" Her voice startles me. "Did you find what you needed?"
I realize I've been standing in the same spot, staring at a display of fountain pens without seeing them. "Still looking," I manage.
She studies me for a moment, like she's trying to solve a puzzle. Then Briana asks another question about envelope liners, and Rebecca turns away, leaving me with the ghost of her curious expression.
I grab a pack of cream-colored stationery and head to the register. A young woman I don’t recognize is working the counter. She must have slipped in while I was lost in thought.
“Find everything okay?" she asks.
"Yes, thanks." I pay quickly, not meeting her eyes.
As I leave, I hear Rebecca laugh at something Briana's said. The sound follows me out onto the street, as bright and genuine as winter sunshine on snow. She's built something beautiful here, turned her dream into reality without any help from me.
Maybe that's answer enough about whether I have any right to try reclaiming her heart.