Page 58 of Letters of Faith
“I thought—I thought—”
“What, Grayson? What did you think?”
“On the way home, I flipped on the radio. There was a wreck, and it matched the description of your car. I tried calling a hundred times, but your phone went to voicemail. Then I came here, and you weren’t here. I thought I lost you. I can’t lose you too.”
His voice is grave as he tightens his arms, and it hits me that Grayson’s biggest fear is losing someone else.
He spends all his time caring for me, but he’s never had someone take care of him.
“I’m not going anywhere, Grayson. I’m right here,” I say, dragging my fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp. A shiver runs through him, and he nods against my neck.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Pulling back, I take his hand and drag him behind me. He follows like a lost puppy. I’ve never seen Grayson like this. He usually keeps his feelings close to his chest, never letting anyone in on his weakness, but I should have seen this coming after we lost Nate. A breakdown from him is past due.
Unlocking my door, I lead him to the living room and pull him down on the couch beside me. He must not think that’s close enough, though, because he pulls me closer until I’m sitting in his lap with my arms wrapped around his neck.
“I just need to be close to you right now,” he whispers.
And I get that because lately, being next to him is all I can think about.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, twirling the hair at the base of his neck between my fingers.
“No.”
“Do you want me to make you something?”
“No.”
“Do you need anything?”
“Just you, Peach. Just you,” he says, laying his head against the couch and closing his eyes.
As I study the strong line of his jaw and how the tension releases from it, I rub my hand over his hair. His shoulders start to relax, and his breathing becomes even as he slips off to sleep.
I hate that he carries so much on him—that people can’t see the man that I do. He’s paid a lot for mistakes he made as an angry kid, and because of that, he thinks that he doesn’t deserve good things in life—or worse, that the good things he has will disappear.
Leaning down, I gently kiss his forehead and whisper three words that I’ve been too afraid to say aloud, “I love you, Gray.”
I hope one day soon I’ll be brave enough to say them to him when he’s awake.
Chapter 24
Georgia,
I hope this letter finds you starting to heal—going out more, enjoying life, and maybe finding love again, but there’s still one more thing I need you to do. You already know what it is, don’t you? This one’s the most important. I wrote the other letters as a warm-up because I know this one will be hard for you, but you’ve made it this far—I think you’re ready.
Heal your relationship with God, Georgia.
The day we found out I was terminal, I asked you not to be mad at God for my cancer, but I could see in your eyes that you already were. I fought so hard not to leave you because of that. The anger in your eyes scared me because I wasn’t sure how I would help if I was gone.
You’re strong. You don’t need me there to heal, but you do need God. You can find yourself everywhere else, but it all means nothing if you don’t find yourself with him again.
Go to church—let it heal you completely.
Please don’t spend the rest of your life being angry when you can see me again when you get here.
I love you, Georgia, and God does, too. He didn’t do this to hurt you, but he can heal you.
Don’t get me wrong, I know that this one will be the hardest task I give you, but I promise that healing will be worth it.
