The most painful part of loving someone was knowing you couldn’t live without them, but not being able to live with them, either.
Blake’s throat convulsed. He hung his head and nodded. “I understand. I’ll be here when you’re ready.”
He looked so sad Farrah almost caved and threw herself into his arms again, but she forced herself to stand her ground—no matter how much doing so killed her inside.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Blake stayed the night on the couch since the snowstorm continued to rage outside and Farrah still worried about him getting sick. The downside was, she didn’t sleep a wink. Instead, she stared at the ceiling, fighting every impulse to curl up beside Blake and never let him go.
Yes, she loved him. So freakin’ much. But she hadn’t stopped hurting, and she wasn’t ready to give him another chance yet.
Farrah left for L.A. a few days later, hoping the holidays would prove a decent distraction. She spent most of it bingeing on Netflix and In-N-Out burgers and conducting ill-fated baking experiments. Farrah’s attempt to recreate Sammy’s signature egg tarts resulted in misshapen brown confections instead of crispy, flaky shells filled with golden custard. One bite confirmed the egg tarts tasted exactly like they looked. Farrah and her mom threw out the batch, picked up a dozen real egg tarts from the nearest Chinese bakery, and never spoke of the incident again.
Farrah also met her mom’s boyfriend.
Yes, boyfriend.
She’d nearly choked on a Hot Cheeto when Cheryl brought it up, looking as nervous as a teenager asking her parent if she could go on a date for the first time. So that was why her mom had been so weird when she’d asked Farrah if she was coming home for the holidays.
Cheryl shouldn’t have worried about Farrah’s reaction: Farrah was thrilled. She was an only child, and they didn’t have family in L.A. She’d worried about her mom being lonely, even with Cheryl’s dance association friends. Friend love wasn’t the same as romantic love, and Cheryl was far too young to live out the rest of her days alone. She deserved happiness, especially after her brutal divorce from Farrah’s dad.
Besides, Kevin, her mom’s boyfriend, seemed like a nice guy. He and Cheryl were old classmates who’d run into each other again at a ballroom dancing competition, and Farrah could tell he adored her mom. He was divorced with no kids, soft-spoken with a surprisingly sarcastic sense of humor, and he had a stable, if boring, job as a database administrator. As far as middle-aged boyfriends went, he could be a lot worse.
All of this would have been a distraction, had it not been for the letters.
Farrah didn’t know how Blake got her L.A. address, but she could guess, and she was going to have a stern talk with Olivia when they returned to New York.
The first letter was a precursor for what to expect. It arrived in a plain envelope, handwritten and unsigned.
I know you need time, and I respect that. But the door is open whenever you’re ready. Read my letters when you feel like you might be able to give me another chance.
The second letter had been a simple card. Farrah debated whether to open it, but in the end, curiosity won out.
When I was six, my family canceled a vacation to Disneyland because my sister got really sick, and I remember wishing, just for a second, that I was an only child.
The next day, she received a giant box of her favorite chocolates with a third note.
When I was fourteen, I stole my dad’s cred
it card to buy porn online. My mom saw the charges and had a huge fight with my dad about it. My dad thought he’d been hacked, and I never told them the truth.
The gifts and notes kept coming, hand-delivered by messenger.
A box of gourmet coffee beans from an Austin cafe—the ones Blake said he would buy her as a souvenir: When I was in sixteen, I saw two of my “friends” shove a freshman in a locker. It wasn’t the first time. They’d bullied him the entire year and made his life hell. I didn’t take part in the bullying, but I didn’t stop them either—because I wanted to fit in. Because I wanted to be liked. Because I was this close to becoming homecoming king, and I didn't want to mess it up. Beyond pathetic, I know, but I was young and stupid, and all I cared about was being popular. Well, I won homecoming king. The glory wore off in about two weeks. But the regret of not saying anything—of not standing up to those bullies who were my so-called friends—haunts me to this day.
A beautiful snow globe: When I was twenty, I asked my childhood friend out on a date, even though I didn’t want to. I did it because my family wanted me to and because everyone said we were perfect together. I thought if I gave it time, I would love her the way I was supposed to. I quickly found out that wasn’t the case, but I still led her on for an entire year. I saw her falling in love with me, and I didn’t do anything to stop it. I broke her heart, then I left, but karma later found me anyway…
A framed black-and-white photo of the Shanghai skyline: When I was twenty-one, I fell in love for the first time in my life. I didn’t want to or expect to, but I did. She was beautiful, kind, smart, funny, sassy, talented…everything I could’ve wanted. I lived in fear of messing things up with her. Then, one day, I did. I broke her heart…but I also broke mine. Completely and utterly. Only she didn’t know it then, because I never told her. Instead of telling her the truth, I lied and said I had a girlfriend back home—even though I didn’t, not really. I was afraid of what she would think of me if she found out the truth, which is ironic, considering I lost her anyway.
A beautiful infinity bracelet: When I was twenty-seven, I ran into the woman I loved again. I never stopped loving her, but I was too afraid to reach out after we broke up because…well, if you can’t tell, I have issues with hard conversations. I don’t like them. I run from them. But being the angel she is, she gave me another chance—and I fucked it up, again. I pushed her away, and I ran, again. I drowned in misery for a while until I finally pulled my head from my ass long enough to realize what I should’ve known all along: trying to run from her is as futile as trying to sweep water back into the ocean. Everything I do, every thought I have leads back to her. She’s angry at me right now, and I don’t blame her. But I’m done running. For the first time in my life, I’m going to stay, and I’m going to fight. For her. For us.
None of the letters were signed. They didn’t have to be.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” Cheryl surveyed her daughter with concern. “We can stay home and watch bad TV if you’d rather do that.”
“No, I’m fine.” Farrah took a deep breath.
Blake’s letters, combined with that crazy, stupid stunt he’d pulled in the snowstorm right before the holidays, had rattled her defenses, but she forced a smile on her face. Cheryl had spent most of the holiday break watching her read the letters, shove them into a shoebox under her childhood bed, and fight back tears. Farrah could tell her mom was worried. But it was New Year’s Eve. She wasn’t going to ruin it by being an emotional mess. “Have fun with Kevin. I have to go to Kris’s party, anyway. She’ll kill me if I miss it.”