Page 22 of Letters of Faith
“Now breathe,” he says, his mouth against the shell of my ear. His voice is deep and commanding, leaving no room for arguments and sending shivers down my spine.
At his command, I take a deep breath in. Satisfied, he steps back, and my next breath comes a little smoother.
Taking his seat beside me, he says, “Tell me why you’re so freaked out by this.”
“Besides the fact that I’m receiving letters from my dead husband?” I ask, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Yeah, besides that,” Grayson says, ignoring my attitude.
“It’s all of it. Nate had this whole plan, and I knew nothing about it. More letters are coming. And that’s another thing—I know I said before that I didn’t care how I got them, but that was when I thought there was just one. That information seems important now. But most of all—what if I can’t do the things he asks me? Like, yeah, this first one is easy. I can go out in public. I might have a breakdown when I do, but I can do it. What if I can’t do the others, though? I’ll let Nate down.”
Spinning so I’m facing the bar, I let my forehead fall against the cold marble. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Grayson lean back in his stool and place his elbows on the counter.
Cool and unbothered, that’s the epitome of Grayson Lewis.
It’s infuriating.
“First,” he says, reaching over and pulling my ponytail until I turn my head to look at him, “let’s start with the obvious. You aren’t going to disappoint Nate. He was obsessed with you until he took his last breath—and even now that he’s gone, it seems—so get that out of your head. Second, whatever he asks, you don’t have to do it alone. We’lldo it together.”
“Really?” I ask, hope lacing my voice.
He reaches up, shoving his hands through his hair. “Peach, if you have to ask, I’ve done something wrong over this last year.”
I watch as his hand runs through his dark locks, and for a moment—just a millisecond—I wonder what it would feel like to reach up and let my hand follow the path of his, twirling pieces of hair through my fingers until he relaxes for once in his life.
Then I spy that stupid orchid and the moment shatters, a heaviness weighing on my chest.
Grayson watches me, those blue eyes missing nothing, but stays silent, as once again, that tattoo teases me with its untold story.
“Are you ever going to tell me about it?” I asked.
He shrugs, his eyes turning stormy. “Maybe one day, but not today. Today, we’re going to focus on you and this letter. I know this is from Nate, and you think you have to do it because it’s him, but Georgia, it’s your life to live. If you don’t want to follow through with these letters, you don’t have to.”
My hands shake as I sit up and reach for the letter out of his hand, looking at it like it will have all the answers. There hasn’t been a moment since I received it that I felt like I had a choice, but Grayson‘s right. It is my life. I’m the one left here, living it without Nate, and it hits me—that’s why I want to do it.
“Nate can’t live his life, but I can do it for him,” I say, firm in my decision.
Pride and a little sadness shine in Grayson’s eyes.
“Then we’ll do it together.”
______________________
“Hello,” I call, sticking my head inside the front door of my parents’ home.
I visit every week after having lunch with Ellie. It’s my wayof putting on a face so they don’t worry. The first few months after Nate died, it was a constant stream of people worrying. I felt like I was being smothered, so now, even on the days when I’m struggling, I put on that face that says I’m okay.
Sure, I’m not the same Georgia I was before Nate’s death—I struggle socially. There are two versions of myself—who I was before Nate’s death and who I pretend to be after. Before, I was outgoing. I loved town events and people. Now, I pretend that I will be that girl again someday.
“Back here,” Mom calls.
Kicking my shoes off, I walk down the hallway, passing pictures that make my heart ache for the innocence of the girl in them.
The hall opens up to the kitchen. Mom stands at the counter, kneading dough. Her features are sharp—almost severe, a product of her own raising. Her gray hair is styled perfectly, not a strand out of place, and despite her small frame, she’s usually the most intimidating woman in any room.
She turns her head when she hears my footsteps, and a smile lights up her face when she sees me.
“Grab an apron,” she says, jutting her chin towards the apron hanging on the hook by the pantry door.
