Page 64 of For Fox Sake

Then Ryan speaks, her voice low and steady. “I understand why you didn’t tell me right away. I just wish you would have told me sooner.”

“I know. You’re absolutely right. I screwed up. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can’t. But I promise, full disclosure going forward... if there is a forward.”

Please let there be a forward.

She doesn’t say anything. She frowns at her juice pouch for so long, I wonder if someone pushed the pause button on my life.

“Bernie said you were asking about me.”

“Um, what?”

She waves a hand. “Before. When you first came to town. She said you were asking people at the hospital about me, and Mia, and Mom. I thought,” she shakes her head, “I thought it was because you were into me, not because you were... investigating why I had written letters to your dad. I feel like an idiot now.”

Regret twists through me, sharp as any blade. “I’m so sorry. I’m the idiot, not you. You weren’t wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“I did like you. I still like you. I don’t want this to be the end. The thought of never seeing or talking to you or Ari again is tearing me up inside.”

She sets her juice pouch to the side, her knee bouncing up and down for a few seconds before she speaks again. “Did you want to see the other letters?”

That question knocks me back on the couch. “The other letters? The... the ones Dad sent you? You have them?”

She stands up and leaves the room.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands.

She’s not kicking me out. That’s something positive to hold on to. Maybe I can convince her to at least stay in touch.

Dad’s letters. I can’t even imagine?—

She returns, handing me a dusty shoebox. There’s no lid.

I set it in my lap, staring down at the folded letter at the top, the familiar blocky handwriting.

The same handwriting that signed my school papers, left notes on the fridge when a chore needed to get done, and scrawled our names on the labels of our presents on Christmas morning. The loss strikes me upside the head all over again. Grief is like that. You think you’re all fine and safe and then something inside you becomes aware of the absence of their presence, like a physical pang, a phantom limb pain.

“Mostly he would write about Aria. There are lot of funny stories about her in there. He didn’t mention you, or the rest of your siblings. I don’t know why. Maybe since Aria was the one who connected us.” She shrugs one shoulder.

I rip my eyes from the letters and look over at her. “Thank you.” My voice is gruff and scratchy.

Her eyes soften. “You don’t have to read them here and now. Take it with you.”

“I can’t?—”

She waves me off. “You can send them back to me whenever you’re ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

My fingers tighten around the box. “Thank you.”

I don’t think I’m entirely forgiven. She hasn’t said as much. But this box in my hands is way better than a slap in the face or a jab in the eye. Not that I expected Ryan to suddenly turn into one of the Three Stooges, but still. The kind gesture is surprising.

If only she’ll let me reciprocate.

“Have you thought about it? Coming to Whitby for a visit?” Or forever? I won’t mention that yet. Starting small seems like the wisest course of action. Baby steps.

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