Page 37 of Letters of Faith
Love,
Nate
Chapter 17
Georgia
The breeze blows through my hair as I stomp to Nate’s grave.
I’m so mad I could spit fire.
How dare he do this. When he mentioned it in the first letter, I thought it was a joke—the ramblings of a dying man—but now, well—if he hadn’t already died, I’d strangle him with my bare hands.
My hair swings behind me as I walk, and when I’m standing in front of the tombstone, I let go.
“What were you thinking, Nate?” I yell at the sky. “I did what you asked. I got out of the house, but this? This is too much. I’m not doing it. I refuse.”
I stomp my foot on the ground, and it sinks deep into the snow.
When I woke up this morning, Grayson was gone, and for reasons I refuse to examine, it was the start of my bad mood. Then I found the letter, and my mood went from gray to pitch black. Add in the snow that keeps coming in spurts, and the whole day is spiraling out of control.
My husband has some nerve in asking me to go on a date with someone else—like he isn’t the only person I’ve ever dated.
Besides Grayson in middle school, I never had the desire to date anyone else. Nate and Grayson were the only two people I hung out with. It’s not that I don’t love the people in my town. I did and still do.It’s just that those experiences of going out always left me in a funk the next day. Social interactions just drain my battery, and that got worse when Nate died—last night being a prime example.
Nate was the social butterfly who could spend all day talking to people. I was content to love them from the side, but for some reason, when people clung to Nate, they clung to me, too.
He says it’s because I’m supposed to be loved, but what he doesn’t get is that I was supposed to be loved byhim—no one else.
Despite the cold, anger burrows under my skin, heating it.
“I hate these stupid letters, Nate,” I say, stubbornly crossing my arms across my chest.
Even as I’m saying it, I know that’s not entirely true. I don’t hate them. I’ve loved having a small piece of my husband again, but I hate that the letters are pulling me out of my comfort zone—pushing me past my grief. I wanted to stay stuck there because Nate’s there, and if I move past it, that last thread that’s tying me to him will be gone.
We had talked about kids, but the timing was never right for us, and then we found out he was sick. Selfishly, I wish it had happened for us because then I would always have part of him with me, but at the same time, I would never want my kids to know what it feels like to live without their dad.
“Do you remember that one time we went to the beach? It was the first time either of us had ever been, and it was just the two of us. We packed our stuff early in the morning and drove five hours so we could spend the day there. The whole day was just about the two of us. We played in the sand and the waves, letting the sun warm our skin. Then, that night, we sat on the sand, your arms wrapped around me, and watched the sunset. I remember thinking I could live every day like that—just the two of us in our little bubble. But now, you aren’t here, and you’re asking me to live outside that bubble. This one is not fair, Nate. I can’t follow through with it. I’m sorry.”
My knees buckle, and I fall to the ground in front of his tombstone. The chill of the snow sneaks past my snow pants, taking all the heat of my anger and the rest of my energy with it.
Pulling off my gloves, I trace the letters of his name.
“Please don’t make me do this,” I whisper, but as I sit here with my fingers gliding over his name, I know I will. I’ll do it for him because he asked me to, but not just for him, for me too.
That bubble we lived in that day on the beach popped, and now it’s time for me to find out what’s outside it.
Sitting there a few more minutes, I let the cold seep into my bones, and when my body is numb, I know it’s time for me to go.
Leaning over, I press my forehead to his tomb. “I’ll try, Nate.”
Rising to my feet, I slip my gloves back on my hands and then turn to leave.
Acid burns my throat as I walk back to my car because although I took my anger out on Nate, I am actually angry at myself. A small part of me is excited to go on a date—no matter how much I want to deny that. The problem is, there’s only one person I want to go with, and he’s my husband’s best friend.
As I get in my car, I chew on my cheek, contemplating the mess I’ve gotten myself into.
I realized last night that my feelings for Grayson have changed—grown. I didn’t want to admit how much, but when I read that letter today, butterflies filled my stomach. For one second, I let myself imagine going on a date with Grayson—how his hand would feel in mine or how his lips would be soft when he pressed them to mine at the end of the night. Then I snapped out of it and realized what I was doing. Guilt melted into anger, and I grabbed the letter and came here—letting out my frustration that I only have myself to blame for.
