Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
“Don’t be sorry for me, Whitley. Be sorry for you. I may not have Ash, but I can sleep just fine at night with the things I’ve done. Can you?”
It’s a lie, a flat-out fucking lie, that I sleep well. I’ve probably only slept a handful of hours total since that night, but she doesn’t need to know that. I go through the what-ifs night after night. What if I never went to that party? What if I tried harder to convince Ash to leave with me? But more than anything, what if I never kissed him in front of the window that night three years ago? But I can live with myself knowing I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone, and that’s more than Whitley can say.
“No,” she admits, with an edge in her voice. “But I’m trying to fix that.” Honestly, the fact that she still has an attitude—that she hasn’t had a complete personality transplant—gives me hope that maybe she will be better in the future. That this is genuine. Maybe it makes me a fool, but I believe her.
“Well, good luck,” I say, a little snidely, but genuine nonetheless. She nods before turning to leave, but pauses in the doorway, looking back at me over her shoulder.
“He’s always loved you, you know. I think I knew it before he did. I knew it because he looked at you the way I looked at him.”
My throat gets tight, and my eyes burn. But I won’t cry. Not in front of her.
“Bye, Whitley.”
Chapter 20
Asher
Another week has passed. Another seven days of not talking to Briar. Another one hundred sixty-eight hours of sitting around my dad’s house, taking care of everything he left behind. I’ve trashed most of the stuff that was salvageable, only keeping things of sentimental value. I’ve put off his room for as long as I could, saving it for last. I haven’t so much as set foot in it since I’ve been back, unprepared to face the memories of my mother.
I twist the cheap gold doorknob and push. I’m relieved to find that it’s nearly empty, save for a bed, their tall maple-colored dresser, and one small wooden box that lies in the middle of the floor. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I squat down to get a closer look.
It’s a keepsake box that my mom used to stash random things in, like jewelry, birth certificates, social security cards, family photos, and the like. It’s about the size of a hardback book with a tree carved into the top. I open it, expecting to find the aforementioned things, but instead, I find a manila envelope with my name on it.
Dread. It creeps into me slowly, occupying every part of my being, as my shaky hands reach out to pick it up. It’s heavier than I would have thought. I peel it open, dumping the contents onto the floor, and the first thing that spills out is money. A lot of it. I don’t count it, but it has to at least be a few thousand dollars. What the fuck, Dad?
The next thing I notice is a folded-up piece of paper. I unfold it to find a letter written in my Dad’s handwriting.
Asher,
If you’re reading this, that means I’m gone. I’ve known it was coming for a while now. Expected it, and accepted it, even. I never thought I’d get the chance to make amends with you before my time was up, and maybe we didn’t, but I want you to know that I died happy, having had somewhat of a second chance with you.
I didn’t do much right as a father or a human, and I know I can’t take credit for the man you’ve become, but you’ve made me proud nonetheless. I failed you in so many ways, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. Know that it was never your fault, even when I couldn’t see it myself.
The cash enclosed is what Alexander Vale offered me to have you sent away. I knew I couldn’t say no. He would have had you thrown in jail, or worse. I thought by making you leave, I was doing the right thing by you. But I’ve never been good at making the right calls; that was your mother’s department.
I never spent a dime of this money and always intended for this to be yours. Same with the house. Burn it, sell it, keep it, whatever you want, because it’s yours.
I guess this is the part in the letter where I should impart some words of wisdom. The truth is, I’ve never been very wise, but I’ll give it a try.
I hope that when love finds you, and I suspect that it already has, you’re able to hold on to it forever. And if, for some god-forsaken reason you lose it, you don’t end up like me. Don’t let it break you. You’re stronger than that. Stronger than me.