“Charlie…” I muttered, staring around at a room that was set up like a mini library. The shelves were filled with novels, both children’s books and more classic tales such as To Kill a Mockingbird and a huge Stephen King collection. The bookshelves were all hand built, and I could tell Tristan was the one who’d built them.
There was one bookshelf that held only toys—dinosaurs, cars, toy soldiers.
Yet the toys and the bookshelves weren’t what shook me the most. I stared at the walls of the shed and studied the words carved into the wood. It looked as if he had filled the walls up with notes, with memories—with apologies.
“Every time I missed him…every time I thought of him, I carved it into the wood,” he explained as my fingertips ran across the painful words Tristan had only shared with himself…until now.
I’m sorry I left you.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
I’m sorry I didn’t let you read certain books.
I’m sorry I never took you fishing.
I’m sorry you’ll never fall in love.
I wish I could forget.
I miss you…
“Plus,” he whispered. “Jamie always wanted me to build her a library; I always put it off for tomorrow. I thought I had more time, but sometimes tomorrow never comes and you’re only left with the memories of yesterdays.”
When I found his stare, he tried his best to blink his emotion away. I could see the pain that still lived fresh in his mind, in his heart. I stepped toward him. “It wasn’t your fault, Tristan.”
He shook his head in disagreement. “It was. If I hadn’t been running around trying to start a stupid career, I could’ve been there. I could’ve kept them alive.”
“What happened? What happened to them?”
His head lowered. “I can’t. I can’t talk about that day.”
I lifted his face to find his stare. “That’s fine. I get it. But, I just want you to know that it wasn’t your fault, Tristan. I need you to understand that. You were the best father and husband you could be.” His eyes told me he didn’t believe me. I hoped one day he would. “What was the hardest part for you when you lost them? What was your lowest moment that first week?”
A hesitation hit him as his lips parted to speak. “The day before their funeral I tried to kill myself,” he whispered, extremely raw and uncut. “I sat in my parents’ bathroom and I tried to end my life.”
Oh, Tristan…
“I remember staring at myself in the mirror, knowing that my heart had died right along with them. I knew I was dead. I’ve been dead ever since, ya know? I was okay with that. I was okay with being mean and callous, because I was convinced that I didn’t deserve to have people care for me. I pushed my parents away because I was my own ghost. I wanted so much to be dead, because I felt like it would be better, easier. But then you came, and I started to remember what it felt like to exist.” His lips lay against mine, and my heartbeats sped up. His voice was giving me chills. “Elizabeth?”
“Yes?”
“It’s easier with you.”
“What’s easier with me?”
His hand found my lower back. My hips arched toward him, our bodies slowly becoming one. He ran his fingers against my neck as I closed my eyes, and he spoke softly into my soul. “Being alive.”
I took a deep breath. “You’re good, Tris. You’re good enough. Even on the days you feel worthless.”
“Can I see your soul now?” he asked. I nodded, nervously, and I led him inside my house.
“Love letters?” he asked, sitting on my couch as I opened the heart-shaped tin box.
“Yes.”
“From Steven to you?”
I shook my head. “My mama wrote them to my dad, and he wrote them back to her, almost every day since they met. After he passed away, I would read these every day. Just as a way to remember him. But then one day, Mama threw them out. I found them…and I still read them all the time.”