Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“What letter?” I blurt aloud. I stop and whirl around the living room like maybe the letter will skid under the front door like magic.
I write back, stat. In my mailbox? Or email or something?
His answer lands seconds later. I stopped by right before the auction. Your dad was there. I gave it to him to give to you.
“There’s no freaking letter anywhere,” I moan to no one, anxious as fuck for this letter. I’m about to call my dad when a furball rushes past me, skidding into the kitchen.
I smell a rat. “Did you take my letter, Taco?”
He says nothing, the sneak. But I know his routine. He jumps on stuff and knocks things over.
My dad would leave a letter on the living room table or the kitchen counter. I check the living room, but I don’t find anything there.
Heart jackhammering, I hightail it to the kitchen, circling the island counter, then I spot a rectangle of white wedged under a stool.
“Taco,” I mutter.
I pick up the letter. My name is written on the front in neat, blocky script.
Check it out. I never knew what Beck’s handwriting looked like till now. But why the hell does this personal detail thrill me?
Because this letter thrills me. It might explain why he wasn’t at the auction. But what if it’s more?
I hope it is.
I head to the garage and slide into my Tesla. I won’t even read it till after the show.
Except, I can’t resist.
I rip it open before I turn on the car.
40
YOU
Beck
Dear Jason,
I’m writing this letter because sometimes I do a bad job explaining where my head is at. I start conversations the wrong way. Or at the wrong time. And this conversation is important, so I want to say it right and say it from the heart.
I’m not going to the auction. That’s because I started seeing a therapist. I’ve only had four sessions so far, and I’m not a new man. But I have an open mind, and I want to learn and practice new skills. I’ll probably see her for a while. I’m okay with that. I’m ready for the work.
Already, I’ve learned a lot in a few weeks. Including this—sometimes I have to say no to events that make me uncomfortable. I pulled out of the auction earlier today. I called Ian and Jillian and donated to the Children’s Hospital instead. They understood. I’m so glad I told them.
I dreaded going on stage in front of hundreds of fans where I’d tell them what I wanted in a boyfriend or a girlfriend.
What I want is really simple. You.
But even if we didn’t play football, even if we were together for the world to see, I still wouldn’t want to go on stage and tell everyone all the reasons why you’re the one.
But I can tell you why I fell in love with you.
I fell in love with you because you try so damn hard at everything. You thought you didn’t work hard enough to understand my reasons for not showing up for our second date, but you did try, Jason, and then you tried again.
Thank you.
I fell in love with you because you’re not afraid to change. You named your cat Taco after I told you Bandit was boring. (But I think you changed his name to impress me. Spoiler alert—it worked.)
I fell in love with you because you listen. You listened when I told you about my brother, you listened when I told you about my inexperience, and you listened, too, every time I told you what I wanted to try in bed.
Sidenote—sex with you is the hottest thing ever. Like, equator hot. Lava hot. Surface-of-the-sun hot.
I fell in love with you because you understand my passion for football.
I fell in love with you because you look out for me in ways I suppose I truly need.
I fell in love with you because your taste in TV shows is exquisite. I fell in love with you because you enjoy it so much when I make shishito peppers, eggs, potatoes, and Thanksgiving dinner for you. I fell in love with you because you got me that damned coffee.
Most of all, I fell in love with you because you’re you.
I can’t believe I never said this when we were together, but better late than never?
I love you.
PS: I’m really happy you made it to the playoffs. That was why I sat down to write this letter, but then it turned out I had a lot more to say.
Beck
41
SCREW THE RULES
Jason
Pure joy powers me as I rush into the building, race to the elevator, and count down the seconds until the doors open on the twelfth floor.
The show starts in one minute. If I can just slide in before Megan goes on-air, I can steal a second with Beck.