Page 21 of Letters of Faith
Right now, you’re probably denying that you rolled your eyes at me calling you out, but I know you—so control your eyes, and let’s get back to the point at hand.
(Don’t yell at me for that one, okay? See, I told you I know you).
Here’s what’s going to happen, and no, this is not one of my half-planned ideas. See above—I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.
I’m going to send you a series of letters I’ve started writing today, but again, remember—planned for weeks. In each letter, I will give you a task to complete. Don’t worry, they won’t be hard—probably. Back to the point—this is for your own good, and you have to follow through because this is my dying wish.
Yes, I’m playing that card.
But seriously, Georgia. It’s time for you to live, and I’ll be right by your side while you do—in spirit, of course, but still by your side. And you’ll have Gray, too.
So, with that being said, here’s your first task—pick an event, there are plenty of them in this town, and have FUN. I mean it, Georgia. Have fun. Choose something that you will enjoy. Go to a concert, or a football game, or even one of the local festivals. Just do something—anything. Get out of the house. Stop hiding. Because I know you’re hiding. I can already see you doing it. When people from town come to visit the hospital, you go into your shell—become a hermit. You haven’t been anywhere but by my side in months. You used to love to go out. You’d get all dressed up, even if we were just going to the grocery store. I want that lightness for you again. So find it, okay?
Love,
Nate
Chapter 10
Georgia
Standing on Grayson’s porch, I knock hard against the wooden door. My hands are frozen, causing pain to shoot up my knuckles each time my hand meets the wood. The letter is in my other hand, carefully folded into place.
It’s been three weeks since I received the last one. I chalked it up as a one-time thing—a way for Nate to have closure. I wasn’t expecting another one, but when I checked the mail, there it was, sitting on top, just like the rest.
My knuckles come down again, landing on the wood just as the door is yanked open. I fall forward at the same time Grayson steps into the doorway, and I crash into him, causing him to step back to steady us. It takes me a second to get reoriented. Grayson has his arms around me, holding me, and my hand is trapped between our bodies. I look down, a flush creeping across my cheeks as I realize my hand is pressed against bare skin while the other dangles beside me, the letter still clenched between my fingers.
“Grayson, put a shirt on. It’s freezing outside,” I say, pushing myself back to put space between us. I swipe my hand against my pants, trying to wipe away the burn of his skin against mine.
Cocking one eyebrow, he watches me as he grabs his shirt from the table in the foyer and pulls it over his head. My mouth hangs openas his head disappears inside his shirt, muscles rippling beneath the tattoos that cover his skin. When the shirt is in place, long sleeves covering all skin—and tattoos, he reaches over and pushes my chin up.
“Close your mouth, Peach,” he says with a wink, and dang it, if that wink doesn’t make me want to punch him.
Settling, I shove his arm and say, “I’m just amazed that someone who’s such a baby when it comes to the cold isn’t constantly covered in layers.”
He laughs and shrugs. “I was changing, and you kept knocking at the door like a mad woman. I thought something was wrong. You could have just walked in, you know.”
“No, Gray, I couldn’t. You’ve done plenty for me. You’re letting me live in your guest house. I won’t encroach on your life more than I already have.”
He starts to argue, but I raise my hand, stopping him.
“I didn’t come here to argue with you. Now that you’re properly dressed, look,” I say, lifting my hand to show him the letter.
He stills, staring at the envelope. “Where did that come from?”
My face is bland as I tilt my head and purse my lips because, really, where does he think it came from? It’s not like I run over here with every piece of mail I get.
“Control your face, Peach. I can read it from across the room.”
Rolling my eyes, I walk deeper into the house, making my way to the kitchen. Grayson follows behind me, and once we are in the kitchen, I pull out a bar stool, patting the top.
“Sit,” I say, shoving the letter at him. “Read.”
Grayson obeys, taking the envelope and pulling the letter out while I pace the floor in front of him. His eyes scan the lines of Nate’s handwriting as I silently lose my mind.
When he gets to the last line, he repeats what I did, pulling out a stool and saying, “Sit.”
I shake my head, refusing. There are too many emotions coursing through my body. With a growl, he stands up, scoops me up in his arms, and plants me on the stool beside him.
