9. Felicity
FELICITY
What are you not telling me, Flick?
The question settled between us softly.
But nothing about it felt soft.
Because Hersh was looking at me the same way he used to when we were teenagers and he knew I was upset before I even spoke.
Like he could always see straight through me.
And maybe he still could.
Thunder rolled again outside the apartment windows.
The storm was getting closer.
So was the truth.
My fingers tightened around the mug until they hurt.
“Hersh…”
His eyes never left mine.
Patient.
Careful.
But underneath that calm?
I could feel it.
Sixteen years of unanswered questions sitting in the room with us.
My throat burned suddenly.
I looked away first because I couldn’t bear what I was about to do to him.
Not after he’d already suffered enough.
But he deserved the truth.
God help me, he deserved that much.
“My father lied to you.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Hersh didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Nothing.
I forced myself to keep talking before I lost the nerve.
“He lied about me being married.”
His jaw flexed once.
“Why?”
Tears burned behind my eyes instantly.
Because this part hurt almost as much as the letters themselves.
“He hated you.”
The words came out barely above a whisper.
Hersh looked down slowly at the mug in his hands.
Like maybe some part of him had always known that.
“My dad thought the McDougal boys were trouble,” I whispered. “He thought you’d ruin my life.”
A sad smile touched Hersh’s mouth briefly.
“Looks like he got his wish.”
Pain punched straight through my chest.
“No.”
The word came out instantly.
Strong enough that his eyes lifted back to mine.
“No,” I repeated softer this time. “You didn’t ruin my life.”
God.
The look on his face nearly destroyed me.
Because he still didn’t understand.
Still thought I ignored him.
Still thought I let him go.
My vision blurred completely now.
“Hersh…”
His name broke apart halfway out.
The concern in his face returned immediately. “Flick, what is it?”
I shook my head once.
Then again.
Because I didn’t know how to say this without breaking both of us open.
Finally, barely able to breathe, I whispered:
“He hid them.”
Hersh frowned slightly.
“What?”
A tear slid down my cheek.
I didn’t wipe it away this time.
“Your letters.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
The storm outside seemed to disappear.
The room.
The air.
Everything.
Hersh stared at me like he’d stopped understanding English.
“My father hid them,” I whispered shakily. “All of them.”
Nothing in his face moved.
Not immediately.
Which somehow hurt worse.
Then slowly…
very slowly…
the color drained from his face.
“You never got them?”
There it was.
That shattered whisper.
The one that broke straight through my chest.
I shook my head.
Tears falling freely now.
“No.”
Hersh sat completely still.
Like if he moved, the entire world might come apart around him.
“I wrote every week,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
His eyes snapped to mine instantly.
And that hurt too.
Because now he realized:
I knew exactly how much he loved me.
“I found them after my father died,” I whispered. “Sixteen months ago.”
The room felt too small for this kind of pain.
Hersh dragged one rough hand across his mouth slowly.
His breathing had changed.
Uneven now.
God.
I’d never seen him look wounded before.
Not truly.
Even as a teenager, Hersh had always been strong.
Steady.
Certain.
But this?
This hit somewhere deeper.
“I waited for you,” he whispered.
The tears came harder instantly.
Because I had waited too.
Every day.
Every week.
Every trip to the mailbox.
“I thought you forgot me,” I admitted brokenly.
Hersh closed his eyes briefly.
And for one terrible second, he looked exactly like a man grieving something he could never get back.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
Thunder cracked outside hard enough to shake the windows.
Neither of us flinched.
Because nothing hurt worse than this.
“I wrote you from Ranger school,” he said quietly, almost like he was talking to himself now. “From Georgia. Afghanistan. Germany. Hell, I even wrote from a hospital once after dislocating my shoulder.”
A sob caught in my throat.
“I kept thinking maybe the next one would make you answer.”
Oh God.
Oh God.
“Hersh…”
His eyes lifted to mine again.
Broken.
Completely broken.
And somehow still gentle when he looked at me.
“Sixteen years, Flick.”
The grief in his voice nearly destroyed me.
“Sixteen years thinking you stopped loving me.”
I covered my mouth with one shaking hand because I physically could not hold together anymore.
“I never stopped,” I whispered.
The words slipped out before fear could stop them.
Hersh went completely still.
Every bit of air disappeared from the room.
And suddenly we weren’t sitting in an apartment above a tavern anymore.
We were high school sweethearts again.
Standing at the edge of goodbye.
Still in love.
Still reaching for each other.
Only this time…
the truth had finally caught up to us.