Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
I run my fingers over the label, feeling the old slashes where Macon’s handwriting all but carved out my name in ink. The date on the stamp has me pausing. “You sent this to me the week after . . .”
“After the prom,” he finishes, raw and tight. “Yes.”
I eye the package anew as if it might truly be a bomb. But Macon is leaning toward me, the lines of his body tense as if he’s bracing himself. He wants this badly.
With shaking hands, I slowly pull apart the paper.
Macon’s harsh voice cuts through the silence. “I thought you were the one who returned it.”
Pausing, I lift my eyes to his. “Would it have mattered if you knew it hadn’t been me?”
“I would like to think I would have delivered it in person, had I known someone hid it from you. But I was an immature prick at seventeen. I can’t say for certain what I would have done.”
My hand smooths over the box.
“Open it,” he says. “Please.”
The old packing paper crackles under my hands. Inside is an envelope, my name printed on it in big block letters, and a slim robin’s-egg-blue box. My breath catches because I know the color of that box. The words Tiffany & Co. are embossed in black on the front. Curiosity has me itching to open it, see what’s inside. But the letter calls to me in a stronger voice—in his voice.
Carefully, I set the box on the table and open the letter.
Macon’s handwriting isn’t pretty—some letters are crammed together with frustrated impatience while others pull wide as if unraveling. The ink is dark, words etched into the paper with determined force. For a long moment, I simply hold the ruled paper, so obviously sheared from one of his old school notebooks.
I’m afraid to read it. But Macon’s dark eyes are upon me, waiting. His hands curl into fists. I give him a quick, weak smile as if to say, I’m going in. It’s okay; I won’t run.
And then I turn my attention to the page. Instantly his voice is in my head, that slow butter-and-honey drawl that used to work like burrs upon my skin but now sinks into my heart and makes it beat both harder and stronger.
Delilah,
My mother once told me that if you have something truly important to say, write it in a letter. Not an email or text or typed out. But to put pen to paper. A person’s handwriting, the places they press harder on the page, the blots and errors in the ink, show their soul. Put your thoughts in a letter, and the receiver has a record of it forever, not just a memory but something they can pull out and touch when they need a reminder.
Since my mother rarely gives me any advice, I’ve decided to heed hers now. Plus, I’m much better when I can think of things I want to say instead of spitting out whatever bullshit nonsense flies from my mouth.
I am sorry for what happened at prom. Things went too far. I should have
That sounds weak even as I write it. I don’t know the right words to say. I don’t know why things always get out of hand between us. But I do know that I can’t stand living in my skin when I think of you as you were that night. That should never have happened.
I was in the wrong. I’m often in the wrong—especially when it comes to you.
I don’t expect your forgiveness. I don’t really need it. I won’t be in your life anymore and that’s probably a good thing. You deserve better than what you got from me. From a lot of people.
So, no, I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I hope that you won’t hurt anymore.
Maybe you don’t remember, but you once said that the stars overhead gave you hope because, even though it took years for their light to reach us, their starlight still gave us joy when we looked upon them. And I sneered at you because I didn’t have any hope or light in my life. But I could never shake the thought that if Delilah Baker remained hopeful that she’d eventually burn bright, despite all the shit that got thrown her way, who was I, with all my advantages, to stop trying? I hated you for that too, Delilah. I hated that you were the only one who could ever scratch the scabs that cover me. You made me bleed when I didn’t want to.
And now I’ve made you bleed too much. Why does it feel like it’s my wound too?
Doesn’t matter. I bought you this because it reminded me of stars. I figure you can wear these stars around your neck and always remain hopeful. I understand if they remind you of me instead and you don’t want my gift. In that case, sell the damn thing and use the money for whatever pleases you.