Chapter 41
forty-one
Box clutched to my chest, I slowly make my way up to my room. The leather, worn from years of use, is smooth beneath my touch.
I set my beer on the nightstand and crawl onto the bed, getting comfortable up against the padded headboard.
Grabbing the throw blanket I’d used the night before to cuddle with, I settle in and open the box.
Inside, hundreds of letters are neatly stacked, organized by date. Most are in open envelopes with my name written on the front in Rowan’s handwriting—though it changes somewhat over the years, from the messy scrawl of a twelve-year-old boy to the more confident strokes of a young man.
My fingers tremble as I take the first one out. Dated about three months after he’d left, the envelope is soft and worn, as if it’s been read a hundred times.
Taking a deep breath, I take the wrinkled letter out and start to read.
Dear Sunshine,
My heart thuds.
Sunshine.
The sound of a sweet young boy’s voice fills my head as a core memory resurfaces.
“I love your laugh.”
My heart ka-thumps. “You do?”
Rowan shrugs and looks down at the grass, plucking a couple of blades from the ground. “Yeah. It’s what I imagine sunshine would sound like.”
His gaze flicks up and his neck flushes like it always does when he’s nervous before he shrugs again and looks away. “You know... if it could laugh.”
Shaking the memory away, I continue to read.
I miss you. I miss Logan, too. I miss my parents. I wish things were different. I hate it here. It’s cold and gloomy. My grandparents are nice, but I barely know them. I wish I could go back in time. I want to come home. You probably hate me. I guess that’s okay. It’s probably better anyway.
Love,
Ro
My chest tightens when I read the next.
Dear Sunshine,
My therapist says if it’s too hard for me to talk to you on the phone, then I should write to you instead.
Says I don’t have to send them if I don’t want to.
She says I should still talk to Logan, though.
Having a friend is important and it would be good for me to keep in touch.
For my well being. What’s well being mean anyways?
Love,
Ro
The next one resonates even more.
Dear Sunshine,
I talked to Logan on the phone today. I could hear you talking in the background.
It was too hard to hear your voice, so I told him I had to go.
I miss you even more every day since I heard your voice.
I’m gonna ask Logan to make sure our conversations are private from now on. That way, it doesn’t hurt so much.
Love,
Ro
About a year in, his words start getting angry.
He writes about his new friends and how they like to cause trouble.
Tagging buildings and breaking into cars.
Smoking weed and cigarettes. They even snuck a bottle of vodka from one of his friend’s father’s liquor cabinets.
Seems Rowan got so hammered, he woke up the next day in a stranger’s backyard, in a pool of his own vomit.
He writes about anger management. How his grandparents made him take acting classes as a form of therapy. It seems to work. Over time, his words start sounding less angry and more... hopeful.
Dear Sunshine,
I’ve decided I’m going to be an actor. I’m really good at pretending to be other people. Playing make-believe helps me forget about the past. My acting teacher says I’m a natural. Says that one day I could be rich and famous. I’m not sure if I believe him, but it feels good to hear it.
Do you remember that time we pretended to be pirates in your backyard? We used that old sheet from your mom’s linen closet as a sail and spent the whole day hunting for buried treasure and making each other walk the plank? I miss the good times we had. I miss you.
Love,
Ro
Tears stream down my face. As I read, Rowan’s transformation unfolds before my eyes. And the more I read, the more any residual anger I have for him recedes. He writes about getting his first real acting job at sixteen—just a small part in a local theater production, but he was so proud.
The letters stop right around the time his grandparents die. Before he came to live with us. Then they pick up again a couple of months after he showed up in my living room unannounced, looking smug and sexy as shit.
But that’s where I stop. Tears streaming, I reach for my now room temperature beer and down it in one go, grimacing when the bitterness hits my tongue.
It’s nothing short of the bitter guilt I’m feeling about how fucking selfish I’ve been. Sure most of my feelings were valid. Sure I was hurt. But he was hurting too. He’d lost so much more than I ever did. His parents. His grandparents. His friends. The only life he had ever known.
No sooner do I sit back and close my eyes then a subtle whisper of sound comes from the doorway.
When I turn my head and open my eyes, Rowan’s expression instantly switches from hope to concern when he sees my tear-streaked face.
“Iz—” His voice breaks as he rushes to my side and sits next to me on the bed. Warm hands cup my face, as his thumbs gently brush away my tears. “Are you oka—”
Surging forward, I smash my mouth against his. His body stiffens in surprise for only a moment before he responds, his mouth moving against mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache.
I pour everything I have into the kiss—years of hurt and longing, confusion and desire. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as a soft whimper escapes my throat.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily as I press my forehead against his.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper, voice thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry that I was so caught up in my own pain that I never stopped to think about yours.”
His eyes search mine, filled with cautious hope. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Iz. Nothing.”
“I was angry at you for so long,” I confess, gesturing to the letters scattered across the bed. “But reading these... Ro, you were just a kid. We both were.”
He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I should have found a way to tell you how I felt. I should have—”
“Shh.” I brush a thumb across his lips. “We can’t change the past. But maybe... Maybe we can stop letting it overshadow what’s been happening between us.”
His hands slide from my face to my shoulders, down my arms until he’s grasping both my hands in his. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I think it’s time for me to let go of the past. Really let go. This doesn’t feel so fake anymore.”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Good.”
His admission sends a jolt of shock through my nervous system. Suddenly unsure, I glance down at our clasped hands.
Catching on to my hesitation, he gives me a little nudge. “But?”
“But. This is all happening so fast. One minute I feel like I still hate your guts; the next I’m sitting in your guest room. On your bed. In your mansion of a house, reading letters that make me want to hold that broken twelve-year-old boy tight and never let him go.”
“Izzy,” he murmurs softly.
“Obviously, I’m confused as hell,” I admit with a watery laugh. “But I know I don’t want to keep fighting whatever this is between us. It’s exhausting.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, sending shivers up my arm. “So where does that leave us?”
I take a deep breath. “Honestly? I have no fucking clue. But maybe we can figure it out together? Take things slow?”
His lips capture mine and I sink into him. All too soon he breaks away, only to say something that makes my core pulse with need.
“You sure ‘bout that?” Rowan whispers against my lips, breath warm as it tickles my skin. “No expectations. No pressure. Just be with me right here, right now.”
My heart is pounding so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if he can hear it. The intensity in his hazel eyes makes my stomach flip, and I nod, not trusting my voice.
“We don’t have to have sex,” he continues as he gathers the letters, shoving them back into the box and setting it aside on the nightstand. “We could just…” Reaching out, he tucks his hand behind my neck and squeezes, giving me a mischievous grin and a shrug. “…make out.”
That makes me snort. “You want to make out with me?”
“Yup.”
“Is that all?”
“Not even close.” His eyes flare. “Let me take care of you. Will you let me?”
The thought of having his head between my legs again has my core flexing as I swallow hard, shifting in my seat on the bed.
“Mmmm. Seems someone likes the sound of that.”
My breathing picks up when he takes my mouth, one hand in my hair, the other teasing along the hem of my shirt.
His touch is light and my body instantly responds, warming beneath his fingertips as they dance along the sliver of exposed skin at my waist.
“Ro...” I breathe against his mouth, not quite sure what I’m really asking for.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs, voice rough with desire.
“I need to feel good,” I confess.
His eyes darken as he leans in, pressing me back against the pillows. “I can more than help with that.”
Ever so slowly, he slides a hand under my shirt, calloused fingertips tracing patterns up and over my ribs. His touch is reverent, almost worshipful, and it makes my pulse stutter in the divot of my throat.
Thumb grazing the underside of my breast, I arch into him, a soft moan escaping my lips. He takes his time, exploring every inch of me, making me gasp and squirm.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against my neck, teeth grazing my pulse point as he shifts me to lie down on the bed.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I laugh breathlessly as he pushes my shirt up even higher, exposing my breasts to his heated gaze.
He lifts his head, eyes locking with mine. “You’ve always been mine, Sunshine. Always.”
The intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch. As I reach up to trace the strong line of his jaw, stubble softer than it looks beneath my fingertips, it hits me. This man—this beautiful, confusing, tortured man—has always been a part of me, even when he wasn’t a part of my life.