Page 114 of Lost Boy
He doesn’t give me a moment to take it back or think about what I just agreed to and slips away, digging through his bag and coming back with the folded letter. So small, yet capable of catastrophic damage.
Ryder stands before me again, holding his hand out; the letter is tucked between his index and middle fingers.
My limbs move without any input from me, as if knowing what I need before I realize it myself. I grab the note and unfold it slowly, still perched on the end of the bed with Ryder’s larger-than-life presence towering over me.
My eyes scan the letter, trailing back and forth rapidly. I choke on a gasp, making a strangled sort of sound. I quickly press a fist to my mouth to stop any more pained noises from escaping.
The emotions boil over while I’m simultaneously numb and in sheer agony.
Despair rushes out of me in waves, and if I wasn’t already sitting down, I’d be knocked off my feet.
It’s overwhelming.
Devastating.
“Oh fuck.I can’t do it, Ry.”
He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “You can. You’re so strong, baby. Strongest person I know.” He murmurs the last part, and if Ryder Cruz, state champ and MVP, says I have strength, then I have no choice but to show it.
My gaze blurs as my eyes fill with tears. I blink them away, desperate to finish reading this letter and be strong. For Ryder. For myself. ForDad. No matter how much it hurts, I want to read his message. Follow his advice. A stabbing pain tears through my ribs, the anguish tangible.
Fallon. My dearest son. I know you were afraid. I know you were angry. And I hope now that you’re older, you can give that scared little boy a break. Maybe even some support. I don’t blame you for not wanting your last memories of me to be in a hospital bed.
It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to be unsure. But it’s never okay to blame yourself for the past. I know you’re an emotional soul, an old soul, and I worry for you and your future. I want you to follow your dreams and not let anything hold you back, especially not my passing. Please, Fallon, don’t let it.
I’m leaving my lucky guitar with you. To bring you success and positivity. This guitar has been with me since I was your age. My father gave it to me when I was eighteen. It’s a vintage Fender acoustic guitar. In our favorite color, blue. Well, I hope it’s still your favorite color. But if you like hot pink or something less traditional, that would be cool too!
I snort at his corny joke, even in a letter. It’s so good to see his words. Hear his voice in my head. God, I miss him.
I hope your mother’s been there for you. Your uncle too. You are so special, and I never want you to regret anything. I know how much you love me, but it will never be more than I love you. Until we see each other again one day, I will be watching over you. Love always. Dad.
A tormented sob rips from my throat, and I slap a hand over my mouth as keening cries attempt to tear free. Six years of built-up suppressed feelings. Six years of hating myself.Blamingmyself for everything. And like a dam bursting, I have no hopes of stopping the flood of emotions pouring out of me.
I know there’s more to the letter, but I completely break down, releasing the numbness and accepting the pain bubbling out. But also the love. So much love.
The love and acceptance pouring from my father’s letter are like a balm to my soul. He doesn’t hate me. He never did. Heunderstands.
“I d-don’t know what’s h-happening,” I gasp out between heaving breaths and choked sobs. I thrust my arm out at him, the paper trembling. I can’t talk about this. He just needs to read it for himself.
“It’s okay. Let it all out. It’s the only way.”
He’s right, and I trust him more than anyone else. I just need to let this out.
I sob as Ryder scans the paper rapidly. His eyes glisten with unshed tears the closer he gets to the end.
“There’s no blame,” he whispers. “Your dad understood, Fallon. It wouldn’t have been easy for anyone, let alone a twelve-year-old child. He loves you. Always. Unconditionally.”
He’s right.
Fuck, he’s right.
Ryder envelops me tightly, pulling my face into his chest.
“Let it out, baby. Let it out.”
After a few more minutes of uncontrolled crying, my wails become gentle whimpers. I need to share more. I feel raw, like an exposed wound being cleaned with alcohol. It hurts now, burning with a fierceness hotter than fire. But it’s necessary. It’s for the best.
I pull back, putting space between us. “I was in a shit place when I got to California. Every movement and every moment fucking exhausting. I was lost, just existing. No focus. No motivation. Nodreams. No life.” The confession pours from me, and my words land like an ax, heavy and brutal.
