Page 153 of When It's Us
It’s been months, but every week, without fail, an email shows up.
I haven’t replied—not once.
But I’ve started to look forward to them.
They come late at night or sometimes early in the morning, but always from the same email address that I now recognize in an instant.
Sometimes it’s a random thought he had in the middle of the day. Sometimes it’s a memory of us—something I’d forgotten until he brought it back to life with a sentence.
Other times, it’s progress on the cabin: walls going up, windows ordered, light fixtures he thinks I’ll like.
None of them is grand or polished or perfect. But all of it sounds like him. And I find myself reading over and over throughout the day.
Savoring them. Even when they tear me apart.
His newest email comes in late, almost midnight. I’m already in bed, with my phone on my chest, and the boys are finally asleep in the next room.
I don’t open it right away. I stare at his email in my inbox. It feels kind of perfect knowing, after everything, he’s still trying. And when I finally open it, my chest aches before I even finish the first two lines.
From:[email protected]
Subject:Two Turkeys and Cabin Progress
Ginger,
Thanksgiving came and went. We did it at the big house like always. Hank carved the turkey, and Hudson deep-fried a second one just to prove a point. Haley showed up late with a store-bought pie (that Nat refused to let her put on the table) and zero shame.
I sat at that long table with all of them, food piled high, and the only thing I could think of was how much I wished you were there. You and the boys. I kept looking at everyone around the table; happy, laughing. Together. But it felt incomplete. I kept thinking about how Tate would have turned his nose up at the mashed potatoes, and how Jordan probably would’ve spilled his milk. If you’d have been here, I wonder if you would have let me pull you outside for ten minutes of quiet. And maybe a couple of other things if I was lucky enough. I hope wherever you were, you were happy.
I picked up a playground set for the boys when I went to Bozeman last week. It’s one of those old ones made of redwood. It’s got a slide, and it's sturdy as hell but splintery as shit. Hudson thinks I’m a lunatic because I don’t even have a yard yet. But it’s in the shop in pieces, anyway. I started sanding it down this morning. I think the boys will love it. I’m gonna round off every damn edge until it’s smooth as glass. I promise they won’t get a single splinter. I keep picturing them going down the slide like little maniacs.
I miss you so much, baby. I miss your laugh. I miss your smart mouth and the way you smooth your hands over the boys’ hair when they’re upset. I’d give anything to roll over and feel even one crumb of a nutter butter in the sheets. I miss everything.
The cabin’s coming along. The exterior is done. Siding, roof, trim, all of it. The porch will be wide, like I know you’d want,wrapping all the way around to the back. There’ll be space for a swing, and for the boys to race around it a hundred times a day if they want.
The kitchen cabinets came yesterday. I don’t know if you looked at the plans, but the darkroom’s wired. I stood in there the other day for fifteen minutes picturing you there. I don’t know if you’ll ever see it. But it’s yours either way.
Sometimes I stand in the middle of the living room and talk to you like you’re already here. I tell you about my day. I tell you what I had for dinner or sometimes I sit and pretend you're working quietly next to me. But mostly, I tell you I’m sorry.
I guess I needed you to know that I’m still building this thing. Even if you never walk through the door. Even if the only place I ever get to see you is in the spaces I carved out for you.
Merry Christmas, baby.
I love you.
—Hutch
My breath catches before I even realize I’m holding it.
I press my fingers to my mouth like that’ll stop the way my chin trembles, like I can keep everything in if I hold still enough.
But it’s no use. I can’t stop picturing him.
Standing in the middle of that half-built cabin, talking to me. Like I’m still there, echoing through the spaces he framed for us.
He built me a darkroom?
