Page 19 of Letters of Faith
I turn my head to look at him over my shoulder and come face to face with his glare. Grown men may cower under that look, but I throw my head back and laugh.
Taking a deep breath, I let the cold air burn in my lungs until I have to exhale. Living without Nate has been challenging, but each day, I’ve tried to find a small glimmer where I can appreciate that I’m alive. This is that moment for me today.
We are heading up to where the old water tower sits just off the road on a beaten path. The days are getting shorter, and we only have about fifteen minutes of daylight left, but I know this trail like the back of my hand. Nate and Grayson used to drag me up here on days when they said my nose had been in a book too long. I haven’t been up here since before Nate was diagnosed, though.
With Grayson only a few feet behind me, the water tower comes into view, and I can’t help but smile at all the memories that flood my head as I look at it—like the time Nate and Grayson nearly got arrested for climbing it.
Ellie and Clara, Grayson’s mom, were spitting mad. For Nate, it was the first time he had ever been in trouble, but for Grayson, it was just one of the many. If Nate hadn’t been with Grayson that night, the cop would have arrested him for the mere fact that Grayson was rowdy when he was younger. It bothers me that no one here gives him a break, even now, but they don’t know the man that I do. Grayson would give the shirt off his back to anyone who asked. He would just do it with a growl in his voice and a smirk on his face. He doesn’t mean it that way. He’s just—gruff.
That night wasn’t the first time Nate and Grayson came out to the water tower, and it certainly wasn’t their last. They just were more careful about who was watching. Sometimes, I would come out heretoo, and we would sit up top and watch the stars, planning our lives together. There weren’t many times in Nate’s life that he was a rebel, but climbing the water tower was always one of them.
Grayson must be remembering the same memory that I am because when I stop just at the foot of the ladder that leads to the top of the water tower, he asks, “Are you trying to get me arrested?”
“Come on, Gray. What would Nate do?” I ask, placing one hand and then foot on the ladder.
He grumbles something about being a bad influence, and then he’s following me, his hand on my calf as we climb to make sure I don’t fall.
When I am at the top, I pull myself up on the platform with a few grunts and groans. I really should work out more, but whenever I allot time for exercising, somehow, it always turns into reading instead. Reading is a form of exercise—for my brain, so I usually can talk myself into thinking it counts. Then I get into situations like tonight, where I actually have to be physically active, and I realize that it doesn’t count at all.
Turning around to face the ladder, I offer Grayson my hand. He rolls his eyes and hands me the backpack I made him carry from the car instead.
“You’re half my size, Peach. I’d pull you down instead of you helping me up. Then we’d both be in trouble,” he says as he pulls himself up sans the grunts and groans.
“Show off,” I mutter.
He shoots me a triumphant grin, and I can’t help but stare. Grayson doesn’t smile often, at least not his real smile. Usually, I’m stuck with smirks and glares that are not half as effective as he thinks they are. But when he does offer a real one, it’s something to witness. His whole face lights up, and that shadow that constantly hangs over him fades away. It hints at the real Grayson—the man he would have been if life hadn’t kicked him so manytimes.
That smile does funny things to my chest, causing guilt to eat at my stomach, so instead of taking it in and reveling in it, I busy myself with grabbing the blankets out of the backpack, along with the snacks that I brought for us. I spread one blanket over the cold metal of the platform and sit down, holding the other one. Looking up, I wave my hand and motion for Grayson to sit beside me.
The ghost of that smile is still on his face, and I realize this is one of those moments when my heart doesn’t ache as much.
Lowering himself, he sits beside me and rubs his hands together.
“Here, you big baby,” I say, handing him the other blanket I brought.
He looks down at the blanket and then back at me. His brows pull together, and then he scoots closer, wrapping it around our shoulders as he pulls me against his side.
“If you think I’m going to let you freeze while I keep the blanket, then you underestimate how much of a gentleman I am,” he growls.
A snort slips out of my nose, and I rush to cover my mouth with my hand. Grayson is no gentleman. He’s too gruff—his edges too hard—but that doesn’t mean he isn’t a good man.
Laying my head against Grayson’s shoulder, I sigh as I stare at the stars. The sky is beautiful tonight, with stars scattered in every direction. My granny used to tell me that the stars are holes in the sky where heaven peaks through, giving us just a small glimpse of the light that waits for us. I wish that were true. I’d give anything to see Nate one more time, even if it was just through one of those stars.
“Gray,” I say, my voice becoming more serious. “I got a letter from Nate.”
His body stiffens beneath me, sitting up straighter, and I worry if I should have waited to tell him or maybe I shouldn’t have told him at all. I don’t know the protocol for receiving a letter from a spouse who’s been dead for a year.
“What—uh—when did you get it?”
“Last night,” I say. I don’t lift my head off his shoulder when I respond, my cheeks flaming despite the cold because I know the question that’s coming next. I’m not embarrassed by the letter—just that I’ve been so predictable. Nate knew how I would react, even a year after his death, and I have to wonder if it’s because he knew I wasn’t as strong as I pretended to be.
“Where did you find it? I mean, it’s been a year. Why didn’t he give it to you before he was gone?”
I shrug because I don’t know the answers to those questions. “It was in the mailbox when I got home last night. It has a stamp, so I assume it was mailed—not just placed in there.”
“Aren’t you curious where it came from? What if it wasn’t Nate?”
“There’s no denying the handwriting. It was Nate. I’m curious about where it came from, don’t get me wrong, but at the same time, it wasn’t as important as knowing what the letter said.”
