Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Dear Griffin,
The ten pages of tragedy and heartbreak that I wrote to you about bled from my fingers. Yet you asked me a simple question—what three things am I most proud of—and I’ve been staring at an empty page for the better part of an hour. The first one is easy.
My work. I’m proud of the books I’ve written. I guess in my depressing first letter, I failed to mention that my dream came true—I’m a writer, Griff! Four years ago, my debut crime-fiction novel became a New York Times bestseller. I’ve published three additional books since, and I’m currently in the thick of the editing process of my fifth.
The other two things I’m proud of aren’t so easy to come up with. But I guess something I’m very proud of is asking for help after Izzy died. It took me a while longer than it probably should’ve, but I found myself a therapist, and I’m working on facing my fears. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to pick up the phone and make that first appointment. It may sound silly, but even explaining my issue over the phone the very first time was difficult. I’m not better yet, but I’m working toward it these days, and for that, I’m proud.
God this is tough. Why did you have to ask for three things? I’m realizing I’m not very good at tooting my own horn. But the last thing I’m proud of is something I do as often as I can—I guess I’d describe it as random acts of kindness. For example, a few times I paid for the groceries of a stranger behind me. Or on a really cold day, I sometimes pick up hot chocolate for the school crossing guards—they’re stuck outside in the cold. I know it’s not earth-shattering, but I enjoy doing it. Once a month, I spend the day cooking a bunch of different meals and then drop them off at Mr. Fenley’s house—he’s my neighbor who lost his wife last year, and he really misses her home cooking.
Okay, enough about me. Now it’s my turn to pick a question for you to answer:
Tell me three things you’re afraid of.
Your favorite pen pal,
Luca
P.S. I love handwritten letters, but if you feel more comfortable on e-mail, we can exchange messages that way.
P.P.S. I’d love to exchange more recent photos. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours? ;)
P.P.P.S. Agrizoophobia is thirty points without bonus spaces. But logizomechanophobia—fear of computers—is forty-three points.
I thought about including my photo in the envelope, but in the end I decided against it. We weren’t kids anymore. Mrs. Ryan’s rules didn’t apply. But swapping adult photos felt like a big step for some reason. Especially now that Griffin lived here in the States. Once we took that first step, what was stopping us from taking a second? That thought was pretty scary but also pretty exciting.
I folded the letter into an envelope and addressed it to his PO box in California. When I was done, I slapped on a stamp and looked down at the name. It was pretty damn crazy.
Griffin Quinn.
After all these years.
CHAPTER 4
GRIFFIN
“What’s the total?”
My lawyer shook his head. “Just under a hundred and nineteen thousand.”
I raked my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. How could I be so fucking blind?”
“It was over a period of two and a half years. Don’t be so hard on yourself. Unfortunately, I see this type of thing happening all the time. I’ve had cases where it’s in the millions, Griff. You were on the road a lot. Big money was rolling in and rolling out. You had to trust someone.”
“Yeah. Apparently my childhood best friend was the wrong fucking choice.”
The first thing I did when I signed my first record deal was bring over my buddy Will from England and hire him as my manager. I was traveling all over for gigs to promote my album. My record label was pushing me to get back into the studio and start my next one, and overnight, the day my single dropped, I gained two hundred thousand followers on Instagram. And that was before the shit really hit the fan. I needed someone to keep me organized, someone I could trust to deal with my finances on a day-to-day basis. My lawyer, Aaron, had warned me not to hire a friend. I told him he was nuts—no way was I hiring some firm over my buddy.
I held out my hand to Aaron. “Thanks for not saying I told you so, man.”
He smiled. “Never. That’s not part of my job. Did you decide how we’re handling this? You know where I stand. Let the police deal with it. If he did this to his buddy, what’s he going to do to strangers?”
I knew he was right, but I just couldn’t press charges. Deep down, I felt partly responsible for Will’s issues. I’d brought him to the parties that got him hooked on drugs. And when I realized how out of control his habit had gotten, what did I do? I took off for a three-month tour and left him alone in my big house with access to all the cash he needed to dig his own grave. Maybe if I’d canceled a few shows and pushed him into rehab, none of this shit would’ve happened.