Chapter 40
forty
It’s taking everything in me not to invade Lizzy’s personal space. I know I need to give her some time to acclimate to her new surroundings, but all I want to do is touch her.
Grabbing my bag, I trudge down the hall to my bedroom. After putting my stuff away, I head back downstairs to the kitchen and grab a beer from the fridge.
Popping the top, I take a long sip and walk over to the wall of windows in the living room. The view never gets old, no matter how many times I look at it. But somehow, having Lizzy here makes it feel different—more like a home than just a few glass walls and a great view.
I can’t believe she’s actually here. In my house. After all these years.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me turn around. Hair pulled up into a messy bun, face freshly washed, Lizzy’s changed into a pair of black leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder. Even dressed down, she takes my breath away.
I hold up my beer. “Want one?”
She nods, padding across the living room in her bare feet. “Yes, please.”
I head to the kitchen and grab another bottle from the fridge. When I return, she’s standing at the windows.
“I can’t seem to get over this view,” she says, taking the beer. “Do you ever get tired of waking up to this?”
“Not yet,” I admit.
She takes a sip, keeping her green eyes on the skyline. “Your life is so different now.”
There’s something in her tone I can’t quite place—not exactly envy, more like a hint of melancholy.
“Different doesn’t always mean better.”
She turns to look at me. “Don’t you get lonely living here all by yourself?”
“Sometimes. But now you’re here, so...” I scan Lizzy’s face—the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips—searching for a hint of what she’s feeling.
Her eyes drop. “It’s just for the weekend.”
“I know.” I take another sip, letting the cool liquid slide down my throat. “But it’s still nice having you here.”
When she doesn’t respond, I decide to change the subject. “You want to watch a movie?”
Instead of answering my question, she looks up at me and cocks her head. “You said you wrote me letters. You know. When you were in Ireland.”
My breath hitches and my stomach tilts. Shit.
I hadn’t planned on going there yet. So many times I’ve imagined what it would be like to have her read the letters my therapist recommended I write.
Even though I never sent them. Even if it would help her truly understand why I chose not to speak to her after I left.
I clear my throat. “I still have them.”
“Can I read them?”
Her words come from so far out of left field, all I can do is stand there, stunned.
She wants to read my letters?
When I don’t answer right away, her face flushes and she stammers, “Fuck. I’m sorry. That was super invasive of me to ask. I shouldn’t’ve…”
“No!” The word bursts out louder than I mean it to, and I instantly lower my voice. “I mean. It’s okay. I was going to show you, eventually. You just shocked me, is all. Honestly? I didn’t think you’d actually want to read the ramblings of a fucked up, teenage kid.”
“Of course I do. I think it might help me understand. Maybe get some closure? Get rid of the static of the past that’s been pinging around in my head ever since you came back.”
I rub the back of my neck, suddenly feeling exposed. Those letters contain every raw emotion, every regret, every longing I’ve ever felt for her. They’re the most honest parts of me—parts I’ve never shared with anyone.
“Are you sure?” I ask, voice rough.
She nods, giving me a look that has my heart thumping an erratic beat. “I’m sure.”
Taking a deep breath, I set my beer down on the coffee table. “Wait here.”
I run upstairs to my bedroom, heart pounding as I cross to the walk-in closet. In the back, behind a panel concealing a large safe, I retrieve a worn leather box. My hands are actually trembling as I carry it back downstairs.
Silhouetted against the fading daylight, Lizzy has moved to sit on one of the leather couches. Legs tucked underneath her, she turns when she hears me approach.
“Here,” I say, holding it out to her. “These are all of them.”
She takes the box, lifting the lid carefully as if she’s afraid it might break. “Wow. There are so many.”
“I wrote one almost every day at first,” I admit. Heat crawls up my neck at my admission. “Then it became more like once a week. And eventually, just when something big happened or when I... when I missed you too much.”
Her fingers trace the edge of the box. “Would it be okay if I took these up to my room?”
“Of course.” I hesitate. “Just... remember those were written by a confused kid who didn’t know how to handle his emotions. I’m not that angry kid anymore.”
“I know,” she says softly, clutching the box to her chest. “Neither am I.”
As she stands to leave, I fight the urge to reach for her, to ask her to stay and read them with me. But I know this is something she needs to do alone.
“I’ll be down in a bit,” she murmurs, already heading for the stairs.
I watch her go, my heart hammering against my ribs. What if she hates what she reads? What if my words only make things worse? But it’s too late. The box is in her hands, and all I can do is wait.
Needing something to keep my hands busy, I head to the kitchen and start pulling ingredients from the fridge. Cooking has always calmed me. Something about the methodical process of chopping, measuring, and combining flavors grounds me when my thoughts start spinning out of control.
I decide on a simple pasta dish—something I learned to make in Italy while filming a romantic comedy a few years back. The chef on set had taken a liking to me and taught me a few tricks during our downtime.
As I chop garlic and onions, my mind trips over the fact that Lizzy’s upstairs reading through years of my unfiltered thoughts and feelings.
Those letters contain everything—grief over losing my parents, guilt over leaving without saying goodbye, my struggles as a kid living with grandparents I barely knew.
Then there’s the letters I wrote after I came back. A seventeen-year-old kid living in the same house as her. Sleeping in a bedroom down the hall. Those are the ones I’m having a hard time coming to terms with her reading.
I loved her. Even then. But—being the lost, angry asshole I was—I trampled down any residual feelings and stuck my dick in almost any girl in school that would let me.
Which was a lot.
Not much different than what I did trying to get her out of my head after moving here.
Flipping off the burner, I set the pan aside. It’ll keep for a while.
Not sure how long she’s going to be, I grab another beer from the fridge, trudge into the living room and turn on the TV.
An hour later, Lizzy still hasn’t made an appearance, so I head upstairs.