Page 28 of Letters of Faith
The cold nips at my skin as I walk out of my house and across the driveway to Georgia’s. Sometime over the course of the last year, I stopped thinking about it as the guest house and started thinking of it as Georgia’s. She could live here a hundred years or move out tomorrow, and I would still consider it hers from now until forever.
It’s the day of the festival. Not a single fiber of me is excited about this, but I know Georgia is. After she asked me, she spent the rest of the week talking about the funnel cakes and rides and everything else that will be there. She was like a kid on Christmas—pure, unadulteratedexcitement.
I might resent the letter Nate sent me, but I’m not fool enough to ignore that the two that Georgia received have healed a part of her soul.
Rapping my knuckles against the door, I step back, waiting for Georgia. When the door swings open, my breath is knocked out of my lungs.
The woman is beautiful.
Her dark hair tumbles around her shoulders and frames her face with her toboggan pulled down low over her ears. She smiles at me with pink cheeks, and my heart stutters in my chest. When I get to her eyes, though, they are rimmed with red. She has been crying.
My brow furrows as I try to comprehend what’s happening.
“What’s going on? Why have you been crying? I thought you were excited.”
“It’s nothing,” she says, closing the door behind her and locking it.
She tries to push past me to go to the truck, but I slide in front of her, blocking her path.
“Hey, don’t do that. Don’t push me out.”
Blowing out a breath, she stares at a spot right over my shoulder, refusing to make eye contact.
“I was excited, but now that today’s here, I’m just not sure I’m ready.”
Keeping my hands carefully by my side, I step closer to her and say, “We don’t have to do this if you’re not ready.”
Her mouth twists as she contemplates what I’ve said, and then she spins on her heel, marching back to the door.
Catching her hand, I spin her back to me until she crashes into my chest. Her hand lands directly above my heart, and I pray she can’t feel how fast it’s beating.
“We don’t have to goifyou aren’t ready, but Georgia, you are. That excitement you’ve felt all week—that’s your gut telling you that youare. Be brave, Peach.”
Our breaths tangle as she looks up at me, three inches separating her lips from mine. All I would have to do is lower my head, and my lips would be on hers. I could finally know what she tastes like, but a voice in the back of my head screams that she isn’t in a place for that.
Stepping back, I give her the space that we both need. Her chest heaves up and down, breathing hard from our closeness—or maybe it’s from the decision that she has to make. This isn’t just a decision to go to a winter festival or not. This is a decision to either move on or stay stuck in her grief, and I can’t make it for her.
Finally, after what seems like hours, she nods and says, “I’ll go.”
Chapter 13
Georgia
Noises and lights swirl around me as Grayson and I walk through the entrance to the festival. The church has been putting the event on every year since I can remember. It’s filled with vendors, food, activities for the kids, music—and most importantly, people. When I decided to follow through with the request in Nate’s letter, I knew I needed a place where I wouldn’t be smothered. Maybe it’s strange that I chose the most crowded event of the year, but in my mind, it meant I could get lost in the sea of the crowd with Grayson. It’s not just our town that comes to this thing—it’s people from all over, making it one of the biggest tourist events of the year. It’s a bump in our economy right before the holidays.
A twinge of dread runs through my body as I think of facing another holiday without Nate.
I take a deep breath to center myself, filling my nose with the sweet scents of fried food. Grayson’s eyes dart towards me, his mouth dipping in concern, and I shake my head. I don’t want to do that tonight—be the look of concern. Tonight, I want to do like Nate asked me and live. I can be sad tomorrow, but I want to be present today.
“Georgia,” a voice calls from somewhere in the crowd behind me. “Oh, Georgia.”
Turning around, I scan the crowd, looking for where the voice camefrom. I don’t have to look long because the woman it came from is anything but discreet—that goes for the pack following along with her, too.
Four elderly women cling to each other, arm in arm, pushing through the crowd—pushing may be too tame of a word, more like they are tackling anyone who gets in their way on their mission to get to me. Our mayor may hold the keys to the city, but these women run it.
“Mrs. Adams, how are you?” I ask, pasting on a polite smile as they shove closer.
She’s a spry old woman with naturally gray hair and a penchant for being a menace—the leader of her girl gang. Her voice sounds like she smokes a pack a day, which she does, but she likes to tell everyone at church that she quit twenty years ago. She doesn’t mean any harm. The woman could boss the president around if she wanted to. But her bossiness is her way of caring for the people around her. Some people are an acquired taste, and she’s one of them.
