Page 116 of Book and Ladder
Dear M&M,
I haven’t responded to your email because I couldn’t think of what to say.
I know I disappointed you and let you down. I wish I could explain why I didn’t show up at the corn maze. I can’t tell you everything yet, but I had a reason. I promise I will, as soon as the time is right.
You didn’t deserve the way I left things, you deserve so much more.
I know words won’t fix what I broke. I just want the chance to show you how sorry I am.
I wouldn’t blame you for blocking me now and leaving me like I left you—stranded and hopeful until hope turnedinto confusion and confusion morphed to hurt. Knowing I did that to you is breaking me.
I’m still going to write to you, unless you tell me to stop.
If you let me, I’ll prove I’m capable of showing up. And maybe, in time, we’ll actually meet in person—if you still want that one day.
Please don’t hate me. Trust me for one more chapter of the story.
- BTTP
I shut my laptop. The glow fades from the screen, leaving me alone with one thought: Am I foolish for wanting to give him another chance?
Chapter 31
Patrick
Man cannot discover new oceans
until he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.
~ André Gide
The lineat Sip and Repeat is longer than usual. Or maybe it just feels that way because I’m antsy—first-date jitters over bringing Daisy a coffee she might throw in my face. I’m showing up as Patrick … but also as the host of her favorite podcast. Only she doesn’t know that yet.
I’m supposed to meet Dad later to walk the property. I’m a man with one foot on the dock and one on a boat that’s already moving. Trying to balance between the life he wants for me and the one floating away. If I straddle both for too long, I’ll end up going splishy-sploshy from being wishy-washy.
I chuckle to myself and garner more than a few stares. My responding smile feels unhinged.
It’s official: I’m losing my mind—reciting ad-lib nursery rhymes over a woman.
My order’s up. I grab it and bolt, volleying greetings to a few townspeople along the way. I’m driving like Daisy’s house is on fire and I’m not sure she’ll even open the door. And what if she does? I’ll stand there like a kid at a seventh grade co-ed skate, hoping she’ll accept the coffee from me, not having a clue what to do next.
She didn’t respond to my email—the one I sent as BTTP. Not yet. She’s had more than a few things on her mind with the shop closing. Maybe she hasn’t seen it. Or maybe she has and decided she wants nothing to do with a man who would stand her up. It wouldn’t be the first time she drew that line—I wouldn’t blame her.
I climb her porch, latte in one hand, a paper bag holding a chocolate croissant in the other. I knock. No answer. Knock again.
The door opens and she’s in a towel, holding it to herself with one hand. One wide-eyed look at me and she slams it until only a sliver remains, one accusing eye peeking through.
“Patrick!” She yells like I’m an intruder. “What are you doing here?”
“Why are you answering the door like that?” I want to swallow the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth.
“I thought you were Carli.”
“So you answered naked?” Stop talking, Patrick.
“I’m not naked! I’m in a towel. Trying to shower.”
“And Carli was going to …” I catch myself. “Sorry. I’ll just leave these—unless you want me to set them inside.” Even through the crack I can see her patented irritation. “If you head upstairs, I’ll put them on your entry table so you can finish your shower.”
