Page 15 of Next to Everything We Wanted
Her smile fell. “Have you opened it yet?”
“Of course not.” I played with the bracelets she’d made for me on my wrist.
“But you want to open it.”
“It’s not that I want to hear what she says, but I know I won’t be able to stop thinking about it until I open it. Once I do, the words are out, and I can’t take them back.”
“I get that. Opening a letter makes everything feel more real.”
Raina’s dad had gone to prison for tax evasion back in February. The entire state had talked about it, shocked that amillionaire real estate developer could sink so low. He’d sent her a letter, too, but she visited him in person instead of writing back. Though the twins felt the consequences of his actions, they were slowly letting him in again. I wouldn’t know what to do in their situation.
I rubbed her arm. “You had it much harder.”
“It still hurts you, though,” she said. “And I’d be hurt too if I were you. I’ve never even met your mom.”
“No one here has. Even my cousins don’t remember her.” I shook my head. “Even if she suddenly misses me after all this time, she’s too late.”
“Things change in weird ways,” Raina said. “Arielle and I were terrified that our mom would always be stuck in her ways, but she’s been sober for almost two months. She’s seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.”
“Well, if I ended up how she did, I’d change my ways too.”
Raina’s face pinched, and I realized I’d said the wrong thing. Gosh, had I not drunk enough coffee this morning?
“I’m sorry.” I groaned. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“It’s fine,” she said, though the ice in her eyes said otherwise.
“It’s not. You were trying to be encouraging and I ruined it.”
“It happens.”
I bit my lip, carefully thinking of what to say next. “I’ll read the letter one day. Just to kill the curiosity. Then I’ll throw it away and move on with my life.”
Raina nodded and let the conversation drop. She knew there was nothing else to say.
CHAPTER 5
Gavin
Birds chirped in the tree that stood outside of our balcony, not too far from reach. We lived at the end of the second floor, giving us a good view of nature. There was a lake below with ducks swimming in it and birds singing melodies around it.
They were more musically aligned than I was.
I didn’t often have writer’s block. In fact, I had the opposite problem. So many thoughts sprinted through my mind that I had to get them out. Sure, not everything I wrote was pure gold, but most of it was usable.
But nothing I’d written in the past twelve days was usable.
Sighing, I got up with my notebook and brought it inside.
Phoenix was in the kitchen cooking a late breakfast, the aroma of pancakes filling the room. “Happy Thursday,” he sang, his voice as cheery as his smile. Both faltered when he saw the frustrated look on my face. “Yikes, what’s wrong?”
I sighed and flopped onto the couch. “I keep writing lyrics that my four-year-old self could write better while taking a dump.”
“Every four-year-old comes up with good lyrics while taking a dump, so you might want to find a better comparison.”
I snorted. “Fair argument. We were so much more creative back then.”
“I know, right? I miss my training potty.”
