I miss you. Come home to me. Always, Owen.
“Love letters between your grandparents,” I confirmed. “Why did he sign his letters as Owen?”
“He was a junior. He didn’t like his name much, so he went by Owen. At least to her.”
“Ah.”
I flipped through the small pile, then tucked it back in the box. I went to the next pile, this one held together by an old elastic, brittle and dull with age. I frowned at the single name written with a dark scrawl on the envelope.
Hunter
In the corner was a date. I shuffled through the envelopes, noting each one was the same.
“When is your birthday?” I asked.
“September twelfth. Why?”
I was quiet as I checked the next few piles. All dated, all addressed to Hunter.
“These are yours,” I said.
“What?”
“These are all addressed to you. There is one for your birthday and Christmas every year.”
He came over, holding out his hand. I placed a pile in his palm. He tore off the elastic, his movements jerky. He scanned the envelopes, his frown deepening. “I don’t understand.”
“He wrote you. Every birthday. Every Christmas.”
He looked confused. Upset. Conflicted. Then he dumped the letters in the box and shut the lid.
“Aren’t you going to read them?” I asked.
“Later.” Was his terse reply.
“We could read them together?” I replied, thinking it might help him.
“No. They’re personal.”
Those two words stung unexpectedly. They were clear in their intent. The letters were personal—and I was not. I had to blink away the tears that hit hot and fast. I stood and turned, wiping my eyes so he wouldn’t see how he’d hurt me. “I see.”
He didn’t say anything. The air in the room was now heavy with tension. Laced with uncertainty, the intimacy of earlier evaporated. I bent and stroked Cash’s head, his fur soft under my hands.
“Maybe I should go,” I offered, hoping, praying he would say no. Pull me into his arms and tell me he simply wasn’t ready to see the letters. Tell me he didn’t mean it the way I thought. I needed to hear him say I did mean something.
But instead, he nodded.
“That’s probably a good idea.”
I picked up my dress and shoes and grabbed my purse off the hook where I’d left it earlier.
“Be careful on the roof.”
He never replied.
Chapter 20
Hunter
All night, I prowled the house, too keyed up to sleep. The sound of the rain that came and went agitated me. The box sitting on the coffee table mocked me. Ava’s words echoed in my head on a persistent loop.
“He wrote you. Every birthday. Every Christmas.”
That information shocked me. My mother had told me all my life my grandparents wanted nothing to do with me. Later on, she said they were dead. I was still grappling with that lie, and now there was a very good chance she had lied again.
Maybe everything she had ever told me was a lie.
I stared at the box, my feet refusing to take me closer.
What was in those envelopes?
Why had my grandfather written me so many letters?
I scrubbed my face as the most burning question blazed through my brain.
Why had I sent Ava away?
I should have told her another time or that I wasn’t ready. She would have shut the lid and left it alone. I knew that. But I had reacted to the panicked, sick feeling in my stomach and lashed out.
The hurt on her face had been obvious. My choice of words couldn’t have been deadlier. With that short sentence, I had devastated her.
“No. They’re personal.”
The words had come out without thinking. My usual way of avoidance. Push people away. Don’t let them get close. Never show your emotions.
And I feared the contents of that innocuous-looking box would break me, and I didn’t want her to see that. I let her walk away. Blow my entire world apart. And somehow, I knew she wouldn’t return.
And I wasn’t sure how to deal with that either.
I drained the coffee cup in my hand and set the mug down with a loud thunk.
I picked up the box and carried it to the table. Swallowing, I opened the lid, staring at the envelopes. I lifted out the first pile, noting the date in the corner. Slowly, I sorted the envelopes. There was one for my birthday and one for Christmas every year, starting when I would have been six and going until I turned twenty-one. After that, there was one a year, those envelopes different-looking. They resembled a letter, slightly thicker than the others. Once I was finished, the box was empty except for a larger manila envelope dated last year and the small pile of letters between my grandparents.
With shaking hands, I opened the first envelope. It was a child’s birthday card with a fire truck and colorful words on the front. Inside was a crisp five-dollar bill, the paper currency no longer even in circulation anymore. It was signed by my grandfather with a simple message.