Page 24 of Big Risks

Red,

Some nights here, when the sky is clear and the stars look close enough to touch, I find myself thinking about what you said that day at the pier. How the same stars shine over everyone, no matter how far apart we are. I keep that thought with meto remind me you aren’t as far away as you feel. It makes the distance feel less vast somehow.

I freeze, the letter trembling in my hands. That line about stars being a connection across distances. Walker said almost the exact same thing to me the other night when he walked me to my car.Word for word.

Coincidence, maybe?

I grab another letter, this one from later in the deployment.

I keep thinking about that day we got caught in the rain at the county fair. You were so worried about your hair, but all I could think was how beautiful you looked with raindrops on your eyelashes, laughing as we ran for cover under that ridiculous pumpkin display...

My heart thuds against my ribs. Last week, during dinner, Olivia had told a story about the county fair and retelling a story of Walker and her mom getting drenched at the county fair and hiding under a giant pumpkin display. She'd teased him about it, and he'd changed the subject quickly.

Too quickly.

I spread the letters out in front of me, scanning each one with new eyes. The handwriting. The turns of phrase. The stories.

"No," I whisper to the empty room. "No way."

But even as I say it, I know. Walker is the soldier who wrote these letters. Walker poured his heart out page after page, letter after letter.

Walker loved Red with an intensity that takes my breath away.

I flip through the letters again, this time looking at postmarks, trying to piece together the timeline. If Walker wrote these letters, then was Red Olivia’s mom Riley? Then why didn't Riley write back? Who could ignore love like this? It doesn't make sense.

And then another thought hits me like a physical blow: Walker knew I was reading these. He knew exactly what I'd found in that attic, and he never said a word.

I gather the letters with shaking hands and storm downstairs, grabbing my car keys. Before I know it, I’m at his house knocking on the door. He opens it, and a smile spreads across his face. He drops it when I don’t return it.

"It was you," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "You wrote these letters." I hold them in my hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Instead he steps aside and lets me into the house. I don’t walk past the entryway before turning around to him.

"You knew I was reading them. You knew, and you said nothing." Holding them up again, I need to know. "Why?"

When he turns to face me, the resignation in his eyes tells me everything I need to know.

"I never intended for you to find them," he says quietly.

"That's not an answer."

"What do you want me to say, Hailey?" His voice is tired. "Yes, I wrote them. Yes, I knew what you found. I didn't see the point in dredging it all up."

"The point?" I repeat, incredulous. "The point is honesty. The point is not letting me stumble around in the dark, piecing together your past like some kind of mystery novel."

"It's not a mystery. It's just... over."

"Over?" I grab one of the letters. "This doesn't feel over, Walker. This feels like something that's been haunting you for years. And now it's haunting me too, because I can't figure out why she never wrote back to you. How could anyone read these and not respond?"

Pain flashes across his face, so raw it makes me step back.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he says, turning away.

"It does matter! It matters because—" I stop, realizing with sudden clarity why this hurts so much. "It matters because you're afraid to try again. With anyone. With me."

He doesn't deny it.

"Please," I say, softer now. "Just tell me what happened."

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