Page 15 of The Hang Up
It’s late afternoon now, and the streets are quieter—a few tourists here and there, a couple of kids on bikes, the occasional dog walker. The town is comforting and familiar, like pulling on a favorite sweater.
I spot Lena outside the shop, wiping down one of the café tables. Her hair is falling out of its bun, and a smudge of frosting clings to her cheek. She’s everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I threw away.
I walk slowly. Don’t want to spook her.
When I’m a few feet away, she straightens, catching sight of me. Her eyes narrow, but she doesn’t bolt.
Progress?
“Hey,” I say quietly, holding out the envelope. “I know you don’t want to see me. I know you probably don’t want to read this. But I need you to have it anyway.”
She stares at the letter like it’s poison.
“I’m not asking for anything,” I add. “Not today. Just… read it. That’s all.”
I hold it out for a moment longer. And finally—finally—she reaches out to take it. Her fingers brush mine, and a jolt of electricity zings through my chest.
She doesn’t say anything. Just tucks the envelope into her apron and goes back to wiping down the table.
I take that as my cue to leave. I walk away without looking back this time because for the first time since I got home, I feel like maybe—just maybe—she’s listening.
SEVEN
Lena
The letter sits in my apron pocket for hours before I even touch it.
I feel the weight of it there as I move through my day like a ghost, pouring lattes, frosting cupcakes, restocking napkins, going through the motions while my mind spins in a loop.
It’s burning a hole in me.
Every time I move, I feel it shift. A quiet reminder that he’s not giving up. That he’s still trying. That part of me still wants to know what it says.
When the shop finally closes and I’m left alone in the quiet, I stare at the envelope for a long time.
I’m not sure I’m ready. I’m not sure I’ll ever be, but I unfold it anyway.
Lena,
I know you’re tired of hearing from me. I know I don’t deserve your time. But I need to say this anyway...
I read the whole thing. Twice.
Then a third time, slower.
His handwriting is still the same, messy and familiar. And the words? They’re… honest. Raw. They don’t make excuses. They don’t beg. They just lay it all out. All the fear, the guilt, the regret.
He says Lilac Harbor is his home now. That he’s not going anywhere.
That he came back for me.
I fold the letter and set it on the counter, bracing my hands on either side of the stainless steel and staring down at the smudge of cocoa powder near the sink like it might offer me some kind of answer.
I don’t know what to think. All I know is that I’m tired.
So tired of holding onto this ache. Of being angry. Of pretending it didn’t matter. Of pretending I’m fine when I’m not.
He hurt me. God, he hurt me so badly. But it’s been years. And I’ve been punishing myself by holding onto it for this long.
