CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE #2
Not because I'm afraid of what they'll be. Because they'll be the last of her words I'll ever get. She'll never say another thing to me. Never share another thought. Write me another note. Another I love you. This is it.
But it's time.
After seeing my mom.
After truly seeing Jovi.
I have to do this. Because I don't want to be scared anymore.
Sliding one finger under the flap, it loosens without much effort, the glue mostly dissolved from all the times I passed the envelope back and forth between my hands.
Inside is a single sheet of paper, folded three times.
Tears are already rolling down my cheek before I read the first line.
Dear Liz,
How strange. It only occurs to me now that I've never written you a proper letter. Stranger still, that this is the letter I'm writing. And hopefully, it's one you'll never read. Which means, I definitely need to write you a real letter once I'm done here.
I'm stalling. I'm sure you noticed. You notice everything.
It used to drive me nuts when I was a kid.
But later, knowing you always had your eyes on me, was the thing that made me feel safe.
Confident. Gave me the courage to be out in the world and live without fear, because I knew you were there.
Watching. Making sure I didn't screw up too bad. Making sure no one else did either.
Remember that time Sadie Hoffmeyer thought she was being so sneaky stealing my Halloween candy out of my backpack while we were walking home from school? Man, I don't think I've ever seen someone as scared as Sadie was when you calmly told her to 'Put that back. Now.'
How old were you? Nine? And already a hardass.
I'm still stalling.
Liz. This sucks. Writing this letter is both the shittiest and most important thing I may ever do. It's the shittiest because if you ever have to read it, I fucking died. And that, well, that bums me out next level.
Seriously. It breaks me just thinking about it. Not dying. Because, whatever, I'd be dead. But leaving the kids? Simply writing those words steals the breath from my lungs.
But I don't have the luxury of pretending those sorts of things don't happen. That life is free of tragedy and that terrifying thoughts could never become a reality. And we both know why.
So I'm writing this letter, Liz. Because writing it also calms that raging, heartbreaking fear inside me. Because if what I fear most in the whole world ever came to pass, there's only one person who could make me less afraid. And that's you.
It feels silly to ask, because I know the answer is yes. So I won't. I'll tell you though, because if I don't, you'll doubt it. And your crazy brain will think it's possible that someone else would do it better. Could do it better. And there's no one Liz. No one but you.
You're the only person I trust to care for my children if I'm not there to do it myself.
You're the only person we trust.
Tammy and Abe were great parents to Trent, and they're the best grandparents to Remmi and Gavin. And those are the roles we want them to keep. Those are the roles we believe they're best in.
Jovi. Well, Jovi is complicated. Not because he doesn't love the kids. Or because we don't trust him. We do. On both fronts. But when it comes to the kids, he comes in just short of where you land. So, I guess, if you ever have to write this letter, consider writing it to him.
I'm joking.
Sort of.
I love you, Liz. I love you so much, sometimes it makes my heart hurt. Especially because I think sometimes you don't think you deserve that kind of love. You do. So much.
Which brings me to my closing thoughts. This letter may be a hot mess, but there are two things I want to make crystal clear.
You are the person I trust most to care for my children.
But, Liz, Jovi is the only one I trust to care for you.
Let him.
Love, Lena.
JOVI
I didn't tell Liz, but I have a hunch I know who got Tammy to drop the custody suit, and it wasn't Ryan.
After my mom filled me in on the Penny family history, I shared more of the current events with her. She didn't say much at the time, but her silence spoke volumes. As did the tight line of her mouth and the tension of her locked jaw.
My mother makes me crazy sometimes when it comes to the business, but at the root of all her efforts to control things isn't just her desire to protect my father's legacy, it's a need to protect us all. Our whole family. And for her, that includes Liz and the kids now.
I'd like to think years of friendship allowed my mother to sway Tammy. That the occasion involved coffee and kind words and shared compassion between two women who've known grief more deeply than anyone should. But I know my mother. She's not the soft sort. She's the scary sort.
So, I find myself smirking as I sit at my laptop at eleven o'clock at night, searching the Edible Arrangements website for their most elaborate bouquets. My mother deserves some chocolate dipped fruit.
I'm finishing my order, complete with a 'glad you're on my team' note, when there's a knock at my door. I turn around to find Liz peeking inside.
"Is everything okay?" I jump out of my chair so fast it tips over. "Have you been crying?" It's a dumb question. Her eyes are bloodshot and her eyelashes are still sticky with tears. "Are the kids okay?"
She just nods, takes my hand, and starts leading me back the way she came. "Everything is fine," she croaks out as she pulls me closer, cuddling into my side as we walk out of the barn and into the chilly night air. It’s instinct and primitive need when I wrap my arms around her to keep her warm.
"Where are we going?" I ask, trying not to trip her while I move her to my front. Walking this way is still awkward, but at least I can offer her maximum body heat this way without dragging her sideways while she's trying to walk forward.
"The house," she says, voice still scratchy. Like she's been crying. A lot. "I want to show you something."
"Is it going to piss me off because it made you cry?" I grumble.
"No," she chokes out a laugh. "You'll like it. I promise."
I take her word for it. Trust. It's a big thing here. And I don't want to give her any reason to think I don't have it when it comes to her.
When we reach the house, she veers toward the back door, and we sneak inside, careful not to make any noise and wake the kids. At least they're sleeping, so that's a reassuring sign.
She peels herself out of my embrace and I have to fight the urge to drag her right back to me, but I manage, focusing on the part where our bodies are still linked.
Our hands. Twining our fingers, she leads us down the short hall and into the living room.
Where we stop. And my brain and heart both stall out.